


I'm Only Human After All

by ghostinthelibrary



Series: Only Human [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breaking Up & Making Up, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Slow Burn, discussions of rape/non-con but nothing is shown, roach is a dog, whump and the comfort part of hurt/comfort are in later chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:34:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 87,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22974103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary
Summary: It’s a Tuesday, so someone is threatening to kill Jaskier.Geralt doesn’t know why he’s surprised anymore.Geralt moonlights as a superpowered vigilante called the Witcher, but his cover identity is the mild-mannered Geralt Rivia, reporter atThe Continental Press.Jaskier is an entertainment writer at the Press and Geralt’s ex-boyfriend. He's obsessed with the Witcher, the vigilante who has saved his life multiple times. When Geralt is blackmailed by a powerful sorcerer into pursuing the Shrike, a serial killer who’s been targeting abusive men, Jaskier gets involved, despite Geralt’s best efforts.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Only Human [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650982
Comments: 989
Kudos: 1681





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea has been bouncing around in my head for the last couple of months in various iterations, so I’m finally just writing the thing.
> 
> Title is from “Human” by Rag’n’Bone Man.
> 
> Content warning: There is a brief description of a sexual assault in the first section. It's not of a major character and is just talked about, not shown, but if this is triggering for you, please skip the paragraph that begins, “Three years ago, she came to Novigrad with only a guitar and a duffel bag."
> 
> ETA 6/14/20: Thank you Terresdebrume for the beautiful cover he created for this story! You can find it on Tumblr here: https://terresdebrume.tumblr.com/post/620591979527651328/a-cover-for-librarianjenns-wonderful-fic-im

They never see her coming.

State of the art security cameras, the best protection spells money can buy, guard dogs (and once, a guard hellhound, which was fun.) It doesn’t matter. The Shrike always manages to avoid being detected by the cameras. She’s immune to the spells. She can send the most fierce of dogs (even the hellhound) running with its tail between its legs. If there’s a way to stop her, no one has figured it out yet.

She slips down the hallway, her footsteps light on the plush carpeting, only pausing to curl her lip at a life-sized portrait of tonight’s target. Tackiness is not the crime Marcus Weiss is going to die for tonight, but it’s high on his list of sins. “Real money means not having to boast about it,” her stepmother would say if she were here. One of the few things the Shrike ever agreed with her stepmother about, actually.

The bodyguard poised outside the bedroom door doesn’t see the Shrike before she snaps his neck. She feels a twinge of guilt about it. Like her, he’s just doing a job. But she knows he’s stood outside this very door and listened to the cries of _”stop, don’t, what are you doing?”_ She knows he’s testified on behalf of the monster inside. Job or no, some men deserve to have their neck snapped.

She finds her target asleep, spread-eagle on his king sized bed. There’s a girl next to him, small and curled into the fetal position, the ridges of her spinal cord pressed sharply against her skin. It would be a kindness to let them sleep, to kill the man before he knows what’s happening. Tonight, the Shrike isn’t in the mood for kindness.

“Her name was Katia Vanroden,” she says. “Do you remember her?”

The girl snaps awake first. She looks up at the Shrike with kohl-smeared hazel eyes. She’s young, so young. Her cheeks are dotted with acne scars that she’s tried to cover with a thick layer of foundation. “Marcus?” she asks.

The man, Marcus, opens his eyes and looks up at the intruder. “What the fuck?”

“Leave,” the Shrike tells the young girl. “You don’t need to see this.”

The girl doesn’t hesitate; she runs, only pausing to grab her cell phone. She’s going to call the police. The Shrike doesn’t stop her.

“Who the fuck are you?” Marcus Weiss demands of the Shrike. He’s looking directly into her face. She never wears a mask. She wants her victims to be able to look into the face of their reckoning.

“Who I am doesn’t matter,” she says. “Who she was matters. Katia Vanroden. Do you remember her?”

“Who?”

“Three years ago, she came to Novigrad with only a guitar and a duffel bag. She thought she was going to make it big here. She charmed her way into one of your parties. You let her sing for you. Told her you could make her a star. And then you brought her up to your hotel room. She asked you to stop. You didn’t stop. And in the morning, you threw her out into the streets. She tried to press charges against you, but they got thrown out. The police said her story was inconsistent. She died of an overdose six months ago. She was only twenty-one. She never became a star. I’m not surprised you don’t remember her. When you’ve raped so many girls, they must all blend together after a while.”

Marcus Weiss’s eyes go wide. “What do you want? I have money.”

The Shrike smiles down at him. From the other room, she can hear the girl talking frantically on her cell phone. “I want all those girls you’ve hurt alive and whole. I want them to be able to live their lives, free of the pain of what you’ve done. Since I can’t have that, your death will suffice.”

She’s not in the mood for begging tonight, so she stabs him through the abdomen with the pike, at the perfect angle that it severs his spinal cord and pierces his heart. Marcus Weiss doesn’t even have time to cry out before he’s dead. Renfri studies her handiwork for a moment. Then she’s gone, slipped out the window just as sirens begin to sound in the distance.

***

It’s a Tuesday, so someone is threatening to kill Jaskier.

Geralt doesn’t know why he’s surprised anymore.

From his hiding place on the roof of the laundromat, Geralt has a clear view of the alleyway below. The top of Jaskier’s curly brown head bobs as he tries to talk himself out of this. Jaskier always thinks he can talk himself out of things. He’s backed up against the wall of his apartment building, only steps away from the fire escape, his hands raised in surrender. The man standing in front of Jaskier is a shorter, slight man, barely old enough to order a drink at a bar. Normally, he would be no match for Geralt, if it weren’t for the gun pointed directly between Jaskier’s eyes. The gun’s safety is off.

Geralt could drop into the alley and disarm him in less than five seconds. But five seconds is all it would take for a finger to tighten on the trigger and a bullet to end up in Jaskier’s brain.

“Look,” Jaskier says. He looks nervous, but not nearly as terrified as he should when there’s a gun pointed at his head. “I’m just an impartial reviewer for the Press. Nothing I write is personal.”

“It seemed pretty fucking personal to me.” The gunman’s voice trembles. “You said our music was like a pie with no filling.”

Geralt groans. Of all the one-liners of his for Jaskier to use in a review.

_“What did you think of the karaoke?”_

_“The song choice was terrible.”_

_“Wait, what’s wrong with that song? It’s a classic!”_

_“It’s like ordering a pie and finding out it has no filling.”_

_A gasp of mock outrage, then a laugh. “That was brutal. Ever thought of writing reviews for the entertainment section? Essi and I have been told we’re too nice.”_

“You said,” the gunman continues. “That listening to our album was the most joyless experience of your life, including your grandmother’s funeral.”

“I didn’t like my grandmother very much.” Jaskier smiles weakly. “Listen, I’m having a really rough year, okay?”

“A rough year?” The man sounds skeptical.

“My boyfriend and I broke up six months ago.”

Geralt closes his eyes.

“What does that have to do with your review?” The gunman takes a step towards Jaskier and Geralt tenses.

Jaskier speaks quickly, eyes widening. Maybe he’s finally realizing he should be afraid. “We’d been together for two years. We lived together. We had a dog together. And then he started vanishing in the middle of the night. One morning, he showed up smelling like his ex-girlfriend with a bite mark on his shoulder. I’m still not sure if he was cheating on me, or if he’s a secret hitman. I had to move out of our apartment in Glory Lane to this dump. I haven’t seen our dog in months. So maybe I’ve been a little harsher than I normally would be. But I can fix this. I can write another review.”

“You think I want a pity review?” The man jabs the gun at Jaskier’s face. “You think your opinion matters that much?”

Geralt prays to whatever gods may be listening that Jaskier will shut up. No gods seem to be listening, because Jaskier says, “I mean, you are holding a gun on me because of my opinion, so forgive me for assuming.”

The gunman’s posture changes and Geralt knows he can’t hide on the roof anymore, waiting for the right moment. Jaskier, the idiot, is going to get himself shot if Geralt doesn’t do something. Geralt jumps to the ground behind the gunman, landing in a crouch. The gunman turns around, eyes widening in surprise, just as Geralt uses the flat side of his sword to knock the gun out of his hand. It goes skittering across the concrete. Devoid of his gun, Jaskier’s attacker turns to flee. Geralt doesn’t give him a chance; he brings the hilt of his sword against the base of the gunman’s skull. With a strangled yelp, the man crumples to the ground.

The whole encounter takes maybe three seconds.

Geralt looks up at Jaskier, who is still pressed against the wall, breathing heavily. “Jaskier,” he growls. “Why is it that when there’s some shitstorm happening in Novigrad, you’re always at the center of it?”

Jaskier grins up at him, not looking nearly as frightened as he should. People who have had guns pointed at their heads should be scared. There should be whimpering, crying, shaking. Besides the slight tremble of Jaskier’s hands and his pallor, there’s no sign that he just nearly got himself shot. If nothing else, the sight of Geralt in his Witcher getup should be frightening. Geralt knows what Jaskier sees in front of him: an imposing figure clad in all black, his only visible features a pair of eyes turned black by potion and surrounded by dark veins. There’s a reason that people, even the people he saves, often piss themselves or faint at the sight of him. But not Jaskier. Never Jaskier.

For a while, Geralt suspected that Jaskier knew who he really was. After all, they’ve worked together for three years, dated for two, and lived together for just over one. After Yennefer and Vesemir, Jaskier is probably the person who knows him best. But that would require Jaskier being subtle about suspecting Geralt’s secret, and Jaskier couldn’t be subtle if his life depended on it. Which it has, several times.

“That’s not fair,” Jaskier says. “I can think of at least a dozen shitstorms I’ve had nothing to do with lately. Gang wars, homicides, kidnappings…”

“Not for a lack of trying. How the fuck does an entertainment reporter have so many people trying to kill him?”

“He was just mad about a review I wrote!” Jaskier throws his hands up in a “what can I do?” gesture. “A review that was a hundred percent justified, by the way. Their repertoire is entirely half-baked ripoffs of other, better songs. I’d rather go another round with the Ghoul than listen to another one of their albums.”

“You don’t mean that.” Geralt remembers finding Jaskier paralyzed and stretched out on a table, his blue eyes wild with terror, and regrets being frustrated with Jaskier’s lack of fear tonight. The one time he saw Jaskier so frightened that he was reduced to begging for his life still haunts him nearly three years later.

Jaskier’s smile dims and he reaches up to touch the scar along his jawline, as thin as a scalpel’s blade. “Well, thank you for saving my neck again. I feel like I may owe you a beer. Or whatever else you want.”

Geralt doesn’t respond to the clear come on. It’s always a surreal experience, having his own ex-boyfriend try to flirt with him. When they were dating, he always had mixed feelings about Jaskier’s clear attraction to the Witcher. Now, it’s nice to have Jaskier look at him with something other than hurt and betrayal.

“Like whiskey,” Jaskier says quickly. “Or coffee if you don’t drink. Or sparkling water. Or…”

“If you bought me a beer every time I saved your life, you wouldn’t be able to afford rent,” Geralt says, before Jaskier can list every beverage known to man.

Jaskier’s jaw drops in outrage. “You’ve only saved me like five times! And not a single one was my fault! Nearly getting hit by that car was just a fluke. No one expects runaway bank robbers to come zipping through a crosswalk. And the Ghoul… well, maybe deciding to become pen pals with a serial killer wasn’t my best idea, but I’m a journalist.”

“An entertainment reporter.”

“Still a journalist! I have the degree and everything. That time at the bar was a simple misunderstanding. I wasn’t hitting on that guy’s girlfriend. I genuinely just thought her earrings were funky! I had a boyfriend.” Jaskier’s face darkens. “And those guys who broke into my apartment…”

Geralt is glad that the mask covering the lower half of his face hides his expression.

“Well, that was my ex’s fault,” Jaskier says, voice heavy with false cheer.

“It was,” Geralt says. “And you’ve forgotten the time you got shoved out a window.”

“Oh, yeah! Yeah, that was entirely my fault. But you were there to catch me, so it all worked out in the end.”

Geralt sighs. “Can you get home okay?”

Jaskier looks at the fire escape. “It’s literally up one flight of stairs.”

“Can you get home okay?” Geralt asks again.

“Ha,” Jaskier deadpans. “Hilarious. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll try my best.”

“Hm.” Geralt grits his teeth at the slip-up. He tries not to “hm” in front of Jaskier while dressed at the Witcher. “Hm” is a Geralt verbal tic.

Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice. “I managed to survive for twenty-three years before you came to Novigrad, you know.”

“I’m not sure how,” Geralt says. “You need to be more careful. I won’t always be there to save you.”

Jaskier almost looks shy when he glances at him. “I don’t think that’s true.”

Geralt has nothing to say to that, so he watches in silence as Jaskier ascends the fire escape and clambers in through the window of his apartment. As soon as Jaskier is safely inside, Geralt feels the tension in his shoulders release a bit.

He always knew that Jaskier Pankratz would be the death of him. But some nights, he thinks that death might be literal.

***

Geralt drops the frustrated musician, who smells like he has enough drugs in his system to kill a wyvern, off at the nearest hospital. It’s so tempting to drive his boot into the weaselly little shit’s face, but he’s not one to harm an unconscious man. Not even when that unconscious man almost killed someone he loves. Or, used to love. Fuck, who is he kidding? Loves. Instead, he texts Detective Mousesack to tell him what happened before starting towards home.

He goes to the hiding spot where he keeps a duffel bag of clothes and ducks behind a dumpster to peel off his Witcher costume. He’s halfway out of it when the old flip phone he uses for Witcher business rings. With a groan, Geralt answers it. “Hello, Detective.”

“Hello, Witcher,” Detective Mousesack says, sounding jovial despite the sirens and raised voices in the background.

“If you’re calling about the man who attacked Jaskier Pankratz, he’s at Order of Melitele Hospital,” Geralt says. His potion is starting to wear off, returning his voice to normal, so he pitches it lower.

“I’m afraid Jaskier isn’t the only one who had a bad night,” Mousesack says. “The Shrike has struck again.”

“Fuck.” Geralt rubs his forehead. “Where?”

“Corner of Harbor Street and 3rd.”

“Nice neighborhood. I’m sure the commissioner is thrilled.”

“The commissioner can fuck off,” Mousesack says and Geralt snorts. He likes the detective. In another life, they could have been friends. He’s known Mousesack since he moved to Novigrad; they were introduced by Calanthe, the late Lioness of Cintra. Mousesack worked with Calanthe during his time as an officer in the Cintra Police Department, so he’s well-versed in working with vigilantes. More well-versed than is beneficial to his career, given that he’s nearing retirement age and hasn’t advanced past the rank of detective.

“The victim’s name is Marcus Weiss,” Mousesack continues. “He’s a well-known music producer. Also well-known for his habit of liquoring up young popstar wannabes and bringing them back to his hotel room.”

“That fits the profile. She’s going after men who have hurt women." He’s been hunting the Shrike for months, ever since she first appeared in Novigrad and impaled a respected local politician with a habit of sneaking into his young stepdaughters’ bedrooms in the middle of the night. He can’t fault her for her commitment to permanently putting an end to cruel men’s predations. However, he learned years ago that playing judge, jury, and executioner never works.

“Yes, and while, as a husband and father, I personally endorse her commitment to keeping the women of Novigrad safe, I can’t condone the methodology. Being impaled on a pike cannot be a pleasant way to go. Nor is it pleasant to clean up.”

“What do you need me to do?”

“Just keep an eye out, at this point. We have eleven dead men in three months and people are getting antsy. And by people, I mean the asshole commissioner.”

“I was trying to keep an eye out tonight, before I realized Jaskier was trying to get himself killed again.” Geralt runs his hand through his hair in frustration.

“That kid’s lucky he has his own personal vigilante at his beck and cell.”

“I’m not at his beck and call. But keeping him alive is a full time job.”

“Don’t I know it. I felt better when he was living with that ex-boyfriend of his. The kid was built like a brick wall, nothing was getting by him.”

“Hm.” At thirty-five, Geralt hardly considers himself a kid, though he knows that Mousesack has had a soft spot for Jaskier since the Ghoul investigation. He and his wife even came over for dinner a few times when Jaskier and Geralt were living together. Sometimes, he wonders if Mousesack knows, or at least suspects, that the Witcher and Geralt Rivia are one in the same. The detective would occasionally look at Geralt with a knowing glint in his eye when the subject of the Witcher came up. But if Mousesack were going to do something with this knowledge, Geralt would be in jail by now.

“Officer Francis, stop ogling the witness and offer the young lady a jacket!” Mousesack calls suddenly. “I have to go, Witcher, before one of these idiots traumatizes this poor girl even more than she already is. Stay safe out there.”

“You as well, Detective.” Geralt hangs up and finishes changing, then walks the rest of the way home, duffel bag with his costume, swords, and wolf medallion tucked under his arm. His eyes are still black, so he keeps his head ducked so no one will catch a glimpse of them. He can feel the potions wearing off as he goes. His muscles are weakening, losing their superhuman strength, and his pace slows. He can no longer smell every single cosmetic product that every passerby uses or hear the squeal of a train’s brakes from over a mile away. By the time he reaches his brownstone, he’s as human as the woman walking her dog on the other side of the road and the two older men smoking and gossiping on the front stoop of their building.

As soon as he steps through the door to his apartment, he braces himself for eighty pounds of ecstatic pitbull to slam into him. He scratches Roach obligingly behind the ear. Roach looks like a battle-hardened warrior, with only three legs, one and a half ears, and one eye. In reality, Geralt rescued her five years ago as a pup from being used as bait in a dogfight. But despite the fact that he’s the one who scooped her away from the jaws of death and kicked the shit out of the men who treated her so poorly, she looks past him and he knows that she’s expecting someone else. Jaskier.

Geralt sighs and tells himself that the only reason she loves Jaskier so much is that Jaskier fed her under the table and let her sleep in their bed when Geralt wasn’t around. It’s a lie. Despite the fact that she’s normally wary of strangers, especially men, she was a wriggling pile of mush in Jaskier’s lap within five minutes of first meeting him. “Just me tonight, Roach,” he mutters.

He finds Yennefer lounging on the couch in his living room, a book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. She glowers at him. “Geralt, if you’re going to keep leaving me to babysit a sixteen year old, you’re going to have to keep better wine in the house.”

Geralt sighs. Yennefer doesn’t look that much different than when they first met when they were teenagers; magic has made sure of that. She’s still all long dark hair, flashing purple eyes, and a smile that promises suffering to whoever crosses her. “That’s the wine you always keep at your place.”

“Which is all well and good, but when I’m pillaging someone else’s liquor cabinet, I expect top shelf.”

“Hm. Fun night?”

“Cirilla has told me in no uncertain terms that she does not need a babysitter, doesn’t enjoy being treated like a child, and thinks we’re both joyless old idiots. I told her in no uncertain terms that if she doesn’t want a babysitter, she should stop sneaking out and getting into fights with muggers and rapists in back alleys. She’s in her room now.”

“Sleeping?”

“No, sulking. And coming out every ten minutes to sigh loudly and make sure that I know that she’s sulking. Tell me, was I this much of a pain in the ass when I was sixteen?”

“You were ten times worse, Yenn.”

Yennefer studies him. “How was tonight? You’re home later than usual.”

“The usual. A couple of muggings. Dissuading some idiot from buying a baby griffin as a gift for his girlfriend. The Shrike killed some music producer. And Jaskier nearly got himself killed.”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Again? How?”

“Someone was angry about one of his reviews.”

Yennefer snorts. “But his reviews are usually so nice. I had to stop reading them. Too much unbridled enthusiasm.”

“Not anymore.”

“Ah, because of his broken heart.”

Geralt grunts and strides into the kitchen to get himself a beer. There’s a pizza box on the counter with two slices left; he grabs one, even though it has zucchini and tomatoes on it. Yennefer leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest as she watches him eat at the kitchen sink.

“You can just say what you’re thinking, Yennefer,” Geralt says.

“It’s nothing I haven’t already said. You could have just told him the truth.”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“Why, you’re afraid you’d put him in danger if he knew the truth? He was in danger without knowing anything. He still is. That man could find trouble anywhere. You’d prefer he thinks that you slept with me?”

“He thinks I’m a hitman, apparently.”

“I wish you were. You’d be able to afford better alcohol.”

“Yennefer—”

“Geralt. I’m tired of the pining. So, so tired. And gods, the brooding. Honestly, you’ve never been very much fun, but you’re near unbearable these days. Please, go tell Jaskier the truth so the two of you can kiss and make up, or go out and get laid so you can burn some steam off.”

“Thanks for your support, Yenn.”

“I have been supportive. I took you out, got you drunk, tried to send you home with someone, which really shouldn’t be as difficult as it is. Not when you look like that. I’ve been helping you raise the teenage girl you adopted out of the blue. I’ve let Jaskier think I’m a homewrecking trollop.”

“Hm.”

“I’ll take that as an admission that you know I’m right. And I’m going to be honest. I miss the little shit. He may be the most irritating person I’ve ever met, but you two were good together. He made you happy. And he sure knew how to liven up a party.”

“You can still be friends with him.”

“Homewrecking trollop, remember?”

“He’s better off without me.”

“I think we both know that’s not true,” Yennefer says. “I’m sure he’s miserable. You’re miserable. Ciri’s miserable.”

“What does Ciri have to do with this?”

“Have you ever lived with someone who spends most of their time brooding? Because I did. Off and on for, oh, ten years or so. It’s exhausting.”

“I don’t think my breakup with Jaskier is what’s making Ciri miserable,” Geralt says.

“Maybe not, but you can’t deny that you’re not in an emotional state to offer that child the comfort and support she needs after everything she’s been through in the last six months.”

Geralt says nothing, because she’s right. Six months ago, the Lioness of Cintra and her husband, Eist, were brutally murdered by an assassin targeting superpowered vigilantes all over the Continent. Geralt killed the assassin, but he knows that’s little comfort to Ciri. She had to leave everything and everyone she cared about in Cintra behind and start an entirely new life in Novigrad. She had to move in with a man she’d only met once before, as a toddler at her parents’ funerals. She had to deal with the media fallout from the reveal of the Lioness’s true identity as Calanthe Riannon.

And Geralt isn’t equipped to handle any of it.

“She’s bored out of her mind, Geralt,” Yennefer continues. “She’s too smart for that school you’re sending her to.”

“The best public high school in Novigrad.” And the only reason Geralt hadn’t moved out of this apartment after he and Jaskier broke up; there was no way he was going to find something else for a reasonable price in this school district.

Yennefer ignores him. “She’s not meant for the life of an ordinary teenage girl.”

“You’d prefer her to be a vigilante? Yenn, everyone knows that Calanthe was the Lioness now. The only thing keeping Ciri safe is that people don’t know she has her grandmother’s powers. If a new vigilante with the same powers as the Lioness appears, people will know it’s her.”

“Of course I don’t want that,” Yennefer says impatiently. “I was thinking of teaching her magic. That scream is just raw chaos, bottled up inside her. I think it would be good for her to learn a healthy release.”

“Hm.”

“She was asking about your potions earlier.”

Geralt curses. “She can’t drink those. They’ll kill her.” The potions that give him more strength and speed and sharper senses than an ordinary man can be deadly if administered wrong. His mentor, Vesemir, started giving Geralt small doses when he was only four. Even after thirty years of taking them nearly every day, a large enough dose could still kill him.

“That’s what I told her, which is what set off the first round of sulking. She needs something, Geralt. Can’t you see how unhappy she is?”

“I can,” Geralt says. “I just don’t know what to do about it.”

Not for the first time, he wonders what the hell Calanthe and Eist were thinking, leaving Ciri in his care. Surely, there was someone else, some friend or distant relative that would have been better suited. His relationship with Calanthe was purely professional; they were two vigilantes that occasionally collaborated. He can’t fathom why Calanthe would think he was the best person to raise Ciri. He knows nothing about children, especially not teenagers.

“Let her learn magic,” Yennefer says. “That’s what you can do about this. She’s already sneaking out to play at being a crimefighter.”

“Once.”

“That we know of. When she sneaks out again, which she will, no matter how many babysitters you hire, we want her to be prepared.”

“I’ll think about it,” Geralt says, because there’s nothing else to say. Yennefer will get her way, one way or another. She always does.

“That’s all I ask. Now, I need to get home.” Yennefer drops a kiss on his cheek. “When she emerges from her cave, tell her I say bye.”

“Thanks again, Yenn.”

“You need to make more friends so I’m not stuck babysitting every night.”

“That’s unlikely.”

She rests a hand on his cheek and studies him for a moment. “Get some sleep. You look like shit.”

“Fuck off.”

She flashes him a wicked grin and portals out of the apartment, leaving the scent of her lilac and gooseberry perfume in her wake. Her shop is close enough to Geralt's apartment that it would be less energy for her to walk, but the only thing Yennefer loves more than a grand entrance is a dramatic exit. 

Geralt goes to knock on Ciri’s door, but there’s no answer. She’s either sleeping or sulking. He doesn’t hear any movement from within, so he gives up and returns to the kitchen. He eats the rest of the leftover pizza with Roach dancing around his feet, waiting for a bite. He doesn’t give her a bite, but he does let her lick the grease from his fingers. If Jaskier were here, he would laugh and call Geralt a meanie and Geralt would reply that dogs aren’t supposed to eat human food and Jaskier would point out that Roach is more human than some humans. Geralt can practically see Jaskier sitting at the kitchen table, cooing at Roach as he rips a piece off his own food to feed it to the dog, despite Geralt’s protests.

“There’s a reason you’ve lost five pounds since Jaskier moved out,” Geralt tells Roach.

Roach doesn’t reply, just wags her tail.

“I’ve become the type of person who eats dinner alone and talks to my dog,” Geralt tells her. “Fuck.”

He drains the rest of his beer and goes to the fridge to get another one. He has a feeling that tonight will be yet another sleepless night.

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier decides the best way to get over a breakup is to write about the vigilante impaling people on pikes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your kind comments on the first chapter! I apologize if this chapter seems like a bit of a filler chapter. It's all necessary set up for what's coming next, I promise!
> 
> Also, a disclaimer: I know nothing about how newspapers work. My only journalism experience is the year I worked for the school paper in high school. All details about the inner workings of a newspaper are entirely pulled out of my ass.

The first time Jaskier met Geralt, he was sitting at his desk in _The Continental Press_ ’s office, doing prep work for an interview, when he heard the tell-tale click of the Countess’s heels on the linoleum floor. Charlotte de Stael, known not-so-affectionately as the Countess to her subordinates, was giving the new crime beat writer a personal tour of the office, which could only mean one thing: she wanted to hit that. Two years before, she had given Jaskier a personal tour on his first day, which led to seven months of mind-fuckery before she left him for an intern in the ads department.

“And this is Julian Pankratz, a writer for our entertainment section,” the Countess told the man next to her. “Julian, this is Geralt Rivia. He’s our new reporter for the crime beat.”

She may have said something else after that, but Jaskier wasn’t listening, because the man standing behind her was fucking gorgeous. He almost didn’t blame the Countess for giving the new hire a personal tour of the office. Jaskier would give him a personal tour of anything he wanted. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had hair so blond it was almost white pulled back into a ponytail, a chiseled jaw, and cheekbones that could cut glass. Amber eyes gazed down at Jaskier from behind chunky, plastic-rimmed glasses. He looked stiff and uncomfortable in his button-up shirt and khakis. He was even wearing a tie, which made him stand out like a sore thumb in the casual Press office.

He wasn’t the Countess’s usual type. Her typical office flings were young men like Jaskier when he had first met her--barely out of college, fresh-faced and eager to please, prone to falling in love with anyone who made eye contact with them. This man was probably in his early-to-mid thirties and didn’t look even remotely fresh-faced, eager to please, or prone to falling in love easily. Jaskier supposed that those shoulders could make anyone abandon their modus operandi. 

“Nice to meet you,” Jaskier said. Or at least, he tried to say it. He was pretty sure his words emerged a garbled mess.

The new hire--Geralt--nodded curtly. Oh, the Countess was going to have her work cut out for her. Jaskier almost looked forward to seeing it. The Countess placed a possessive hand on Geralt’s arm and steered him away. Jaskier waited until they were out of sight, then made a beeline for the breakroom. He found his coworker, Essi, looking at her phone as she nibbled on the corner of a ham sandwich.

“Did you see the new crime beat guy?” Jaskier demanded, flopping into the seat across from her.

She sighed and brushed her honey blond hair out of her face. “Oh, you mean Mr. Tall, White-Haired, and Gorgeous? Yes, I noticed him. The Countess is going to eat him alive.”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier said. “He seems too smart to fall for her schtick.”

“You want him to fall for your schtick instead?”

Jaskier grinned. “Oh, absolutely. I’m in love.”

“You say that at least once a week.” Essi rolled her eyes. They’d known each other since their university days at Oxenfurt and she was intimately familiar with Jaskier’s romantic travails. 

Jaskier looked around. Through the windows overlooking the workroom, he could see Geralt, trailing behind the Countess and looking vaguely lost. He was quite possibly the only person Jaskier had ever met who could make khakis look damn good. “I have a good feeling about this one, Ess.”

***

Every morning, when Jaskier wakes up, he reaches for Geralt. This is both the best and the worst moment of every day. The best, because in his sleep-fogged mind, the last six months never happened. He knows with absolute certainty that he will reach out to find Geralt’s warm, broad back and that he’ll be able to snuggle against him for a few minutes until his alarm goes off for the fourth time and Geralt growls at him to either get the fuck up or stop hitting the snooze button and go back to sleep.

But it’s the worst because all he finds when he reaches out are cold sheets. Geralt isn’t there. Nobody’s there.

Jaskier lies there for several moments, staring up at the ceiling and replaying the night before. The gun pointed at his face. The _oh, shit_ moment when he realized that this guy wasn’t just screwing around or trying to scare him, that he actually intended to shoot Jaskier. The Witcher. The Witcher, at least, is nice to think about. The one good thing about not being with Geralt anymore is now Jaskier doesn’t have to feel guilty about his low-key obsession with the masked vigilante who keeps saving his life.

But now he’s thinking about Geralt again, like always. Even last night, when he thought he was about to die, all he could think about was the man who broke his heart. Sometimes, it seems like the last three years of his life have been entirely about Geralt.

His alarm goes off again. There’s no one next to him to complain, so Jaskier lets it beep until his neighbor bangs on the wall adjoining their apartments. Groaning, he drags himself out of bed to get ready for his day. His apartment is filled with boxes; after six months living here, Jaskier still isn’t unpacked. He can’t bring himself to admit to himself that he’s staying here. His new apartment is a long, narrow studio, with only a single window. There’s barely enough room for Jaskier’s bed, two dressers, desk, and couch. The only perk that Jaskier can find is its proximity to the laundromat next door and the decent deli across the street.

He’s chowing down on a piece of toast when there’s a tap on his window and he peers outside to find Essi standing on his fire escape, looking disgruntled. He lets her in and she clambers through the window.

“Remind me why I can’t use your front door?” she asks.

“The only place to put my second dresser was in front of the door.”

She snorts and brushes an imaginary piece of lint from the front of her jeans. “Remind me why you need two dressers and a closet?”

“Because all this doesn’t just happen naturally, Ess.” Jaskier gestures to himself.

She looks skeptical. “Are you ready to leave? You don’t look ready.”

“I’m ready! I just need to put pants on. And shoes. And brush my teeth.”

“Melitele’s tits, Jaskier, if the Countess fires us because we’re late again—“

“You’ll stop driving me to work?” Essi is one of the few Novigrad residents sufficiently heedless of death to drive in the city. She insists on driving Jaskier to and from work, given his tendency to end up in mortal peril when left unattended.

“Don’t give me that look,” she snaps. “I’ll do it. Go finish getting ready. You have five minutes, or you’re taking the bus.”

Grumbling, Jaskier goes to finish getting dressed. As he’s putting pants on, Essi asks, “Did you hear about Marcus Weiss?”

“I thought you wanted me to get ready.”

“You can put pants on and talk at the same time, Jaskier. It’s called multitasking.”

“Fine, who’s suing him now?” Marcus Weiss has had more lawsuits for sexual harassment filed against him than Jaskier has pairs of shoes. And Jaskier really likes shoes.

“No one. He was murdered last night. They’re saying it was the Shrike.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, he was impaled on a pike, like all the others.”

“That is _excellent._ ”

“Wow.” Essi helps herself to the dregs of the pot of coffee. “Feeling a little bloodthirsty today, are we?”

“Please, everyone knew that Weiss was as sleazy as they come. No, the Shrike killed a music producer. You know what that means? This is now a story that can be covered by the entertainment section!”

“I think you and I have very different ideas of what constitutes entertainment. Valdo is never going to let you write about another serial killer, not after the Ghoul.”

“He might, if he thinks I’m going to get kidnapped and almost murdered again.” Jaskier grins, ignoring the sick feeling in his gut at the memory. “At least the Shrike doesn’t torture and cannibalize her victims.”

“Don’t joke about that, Jask,” Essi says softly.

“Sorry.” The therapist he was seeing for a while told him that he leans too heavily on humor as a coping mechanism. He tried telling her that there are worse coping mechanisms--he could be a raging fisstech addict, or an alcoholic, or have developed a fondness for collecting creepy dolls. She never seemed convinced by the argument.

“I’ve covered this stuff before,” Jaskier says. “I wrote about the Ghoul. I’ve written about the Witcher. The Shrike will be a piece of cake after that. She's more of a vigilante like the Witcher than a serial killer. I mean, technically she might be a serial killer, but who can blame her?”

“You wrote about the Ghoul because he started sending you letters. You wrote about the Witcher because you’re obsessed with him.”

“I am not!”

“You’re almost as obsessed with him as you are with Geralt.”

Jaskier groans. “Please don’t mention Geralt. I haven’t had nearly enough coffee.”

His therapist also told him that he’s using the Witcher as a stand-in for his feelings about Geralt. Which she is definitely right about, but Jaskier maintains that if he’s going to pine over someone, pining over the superpowered vigilante who keeps saving his life is way less pathetic than pining over the man who cheated on him and broke his heart.

“Look, you keep telling me that I need something to do to distract myself,” he says. “This can be it!”

“I meant take up improv or something so you can get out of your apartment and meet people! Not start spending all your time researching yet another vigilante.”

“I’ve tried improv. Not my thing, which is weird. You’d think improv would be my thing, right?”

Essi groans. “You have thirty seconds before I leave you to fend for yourself. If you sprint, you might be able to make it to the bus in time.”

“You’re a cruel person, Essi Daven.” Jaskier rushes to the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he emerges, Essi is halfway out the window. “Hey! You were actually going to leave me?”

“I warned you multiple times,” she says.

Jaskier rolls his eyes as he follows her down the fire escape. “Remind me why we’re friends?”

“Because you don’t have any other friends.”

“I have Shani,” he says.

“Shani is my girlfriend.”

“I’m the one who introduced you!”

“Junior year of college, Jaskier. You can’t lord that over me forever.”

“I can and I will,” Jaskier says. “And I have other friends. There’s Detective Mousesack. I have—” He trails off. He was about to say “Yennefer,” but then he remembers that she isn’t his friend anymore. She probably never was. Being cheated on hurt like hell. Being cheated on with a woman he considered one of his best friends was like having his lungs torn out. It would be easier if Yennefer were just Geralt’s drop dead gorgeous, all-powerful sorceress ex-girlfriend. But in the two years Jaskier dated Geralt, he grew to adore her almost as much as he adored Geralt. (Despite the fact that she was terrifying. Or maybe because she was terrifying. He’s still not sure.)

“Don’t say the Witcher,” Essi growls. “He’s not your friend. You don’t even know his real name. You don’t even know what he looks like. There could be a gargoyle under that mask, for all you know.”

Jaskier pictures broad shoulders and smoldering black eyes that shouldn’t be nearly as attractive as they are. If the little he’s seen of the Witcher is any indication, the rest of him is definitely gorgeous. He sighs. “Oh, I highly doubt that.”

***

Geralt always walks Ciri to school in the mornings. He tells her it’s because her school is on the way to his office, which isn’t entirely true. It’s not exactly out of his way, but it adds about ten minutes to his morning walk. In truth, he’s still not entirely convinced that Ciri won’t make a break for it and try to flee back to Cintra. She tried once, only a couple of weeks after moving in with Geralt. He doesn’t think she’ll try again, but he doesn’t want to risk it.

Naturally, Ciri hates this with the fervor that only an embarrassed sixteen year old can muster.

“I know how to take care of myself, Geralt,” she says, just like she says every morning. “My grandmother taught me how to defend myself.”

“Skills that you shouldn’t have to put to use walking to school.”

“I need to keep my skills sharp. It’s not like I’m getting any practice sitting alone with Yennefer every night.”

Geralt sighs. “I thought you liked Yenn.”

“I do! But I don’t need a babysitter. I’m sixteen.”

“So you’ve told me.”

“I don’t get why I can’t come on patrol with you.” There’s a whine in her voice.

“Because as you’re so fond of reminding me, you’re sixteen.”

“My grandmother was my age when she became the Lioness!”

“Yes, and your parents weren't much older than you when they were killed.” Geralt regrets the words as soon as he says them. Ciri was only a toddler when Pavetta and Duny died; he doubts she even remembers them. Still, she only lost her grandparents six months ago and reminding her that her parents are dead as well seems cruel. “There’s a reason Calanthe and Eist never wanted this life for you.”

Ciri’s mouth presses into a line. “They were paranoid.”

 _Not paranoid enough,_ Geralt thinks, but at least he has the sense not to say that.

“Yennefer told me last night she would be willing to teach you magic,” Geralt says. “Is that something you’d be interested in?”

Her expression brightens. “Seriously?”

She has a tendency to ask him if he’s being serious a lot. Geralt isn’t sure why he would say something if he wasn’t serious about it. “Yes.”

To his surprise, Ciri throws her arms around him. She’s small for her age and her head hardly comes up to his collarbone. He lets her hug him and awkwardly rests a hand on the back of her head. He doesn’t think Ciri has ever hugged him before. Should he hug her more? Would that make her feel more at home? He’ll have to talk to Yennefer about this later.

He’s never been one for physical affection. He doesn’t remember his mother well, but he doesn’t remember many hugs. Vesemir certainly wasn’t one for hugging, not even when Geralt was small. When they were together, Yennefer was like a cat--when she wanted to be held, he was allowed to touch her. When she didn’t, and he tried to put an arm around her or kiss her, she got hissy. He learned quickly to let her make the first move.

But Jaskier was always touching him, leaning against him while they waited for the train, resting his head in Geralt’s lap while they watched movies, surreptitiously grabbing his ass when no one was looking in the breakroom at work. Of all the things Geralt misses about Jaskier, that’s near the top of the list. Jaskier was always able to casually show affection.

Jaskier would be good at this, Geralt thinks glumly. Jaskier would know exactly what to say to make Ciri let down her guard. He would know how to bond with her. Geralt knows nothing. He doesn’t know how to make Ciri feel at home in Novigrad. He doesn’t know how to ease her grief. He doesn’t know how to relate to a lonely, angry teenager.

Ciri releases him and Geralt steps back quickly. “When do I start?”

“You and Yennefer can talk about that tonight.”

And just like that, the smile falls from Ciri's face and Geralt watches her withdraw back into herself. “You’re going out on patrol again?”

“There’s a serial killer on the loose. I have to,” Geralt says, confused by her sudden change in mood. Ciri enjoys spending time with Yennefer, most of the time. For that matter, she seems to like Yennefer better than Geralt.

“Okay.” Ciri turns and stalks ahead of him, her long blond braid bobbing as she walks. She doesn’t speak again until they’re saying goodbye at the front steps of the school, and then the words are perfunctory. Geralt watches her go inside, her head ducked against the cold. She doesn’t look back. Geralt will have to ask Yennefer later what he did wrong; he’s sure she’ll provide him with a list.

Once Ciri is safely in school, he takes the train to the office, spending most of the ride with a stranger’s armpit in his face. On mornings like these, he’s very glad he doesn’t have his Witcher sense of smell all the time. That would probably make his morning commute unbearable. By the time he gets off the train, he’s already tired and cranky. It’s not that he doesn’t like his job. As far as cover identities, being a reporter for the crime beat is a good one. It gives him a legitimate reason to keep himself apprised of the goings on in the city, to interview victims and witnesses, to find himself wandering by crime scenes. For the most part, his coworkers are tolerable. The coffee in the breakroom isn’t great, but he’s had worse.

But the fact remains that beating up muggers in darkened alleys is easier any day than navigating the ins and outs of office politics.

Especially when part of office politics involves avoiding his ex-boyfriend.

He hears Jaskier before he sees him, just as Geralt is stepping onto the elevator. From the lobby, Jaskier’s voice is raised in excitement. “Look, there was a lot going on this morning!”

“I don’t understand how ‘someone tried to shoot me last night’ isn’t the first thing you lead with, Jaskier,” Essi Daven’s softer voice replies, heavy with exasperation.

“I’m sorry, I was distracted by the threat of you leaving me at the mercy of Novigrad’s failing public transportation system.”

Essi is rolling her eyes when she and Jaskier step onto the elevator. “I swear, sometimes I think you put yourself into these situations so you’ll get to hang out with your mysterious boyfriend.”

Geralt tenses.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Jaskier throws his hands up in exasperation. “And I don’t get myself into these situations on purpose. They just happen to me.”

“Normal people don’t end up in mortal peril this often, Jaskier.”

“Essi, when have I ever been…” Jaskier catches sight of Geralt and it’s like a switch flips. One moment, he’s smiling; the next, his expression is tense and guarded and his hands fall limply to his sides. “...Normal?”

Essi glowers at Geralt. She’s tiny, but her dirty looks pack a punch. Geralt wonders if Yennefer teaches classes. “Good morning, Geralt,” she says, in a tone that implies that she does not wish him a good morning, and would very much like it if he were to plunge down an elevator shaft.

“Essi.” Geralt keeps his voice neutral. 

Jaskier studiously studies a splash of spilled coffee on the floor. His demeanor is world’s away from the night before, when he joked and flirted with the Witcher. Geralt feels a pang at the knowledge that Jaskier felt more comfortable moments after nearly getting murdered than he does sharing an elevator with Geralt. And the worst part is that Geralt completely fucking deserves it.

At least Jaskier looks unharmed and whole, which not many people can say after being confronted by a gunman in an alley. He’s dressed in what Geralt used to teasingly call his uniform: painted-on jeans, a silky v-neck t-shirt (always a bright color; today’s is a vibrant purple) and boots to match. He looks good and Geralt is having trouble looking anywhere else. Essi catches him staring and bares her teeth at him. He looks away quickly and busies himself with cleaning his glasses on his tie.

When the elevator doors finally open on the forty fifth floor, there’s an awkward moment when all three of them stand there. Geralt clears his throat and gestures towards the door, keeping his gaze averted from Jaskier. “After you.”

He looks up and his eyes briefly meet Jaskier’s. Jaskier has never been one for hiding what he’s feeling, and a range of emotions flash across his face: betrayal, anger, longing, and a deep sadness that makes Geralt ache. And then Jaskier and Essi are gone, stepping off the elevator. Before they vanish around the corner, Geralt sees Essi looping a comforting arm around Jaskier’s waist. Geralt takes a deep breath, waits a beat for them to be out of sight, and then goes to work.

***

It takes Jaskier most of the morning to shake off the lingering malaise of running into Geralt. He should be used to running into his ex by now; they do work on the same floor. He keeps thinking that it will stop hurting eventually. Someday, he will look at Geralt and he’ll feel nothing. It has to stop hurting eventually, right? He’s had relationships end badly before. He’s even been cheated on before. But he never saw it coming with Geralt, and that’s the part that really stings.

“Are you listening to me, Pankratz?”

Jaskier looks up at Valdo Marx, the editor of the entertainment section, with a brilliant smile. “Not even a little. What were you saying, Valdo?”

Valdo’s lip curls. He’s never liked Jaskier, possibly because Jaskier was a favorite of the Countess’s early on, while Valdo was never awarded that dubious honor. Or possibly because the one time he accused Jaskier of sleeping his way to the top, Jaskier’s reply was that he was an entry-level writer in the entertainment section and if he really put his energy into fucking his way to the top, he’d be Valdo’s boss.

“I was wondering where that interview you’ve been working on is,” Valdo says.

“Was in your inbox as of last night at 6 PM. Have you checked your email yet?”

“When you send me an email, I expect you to tell me about it.”

“So you want me to send you an email, and then walk over to your office to tell you about said email? Should I just print out my emails and hand them to you?”

“No one likes a smartass, Pankratz,” Valdo says.

Jaskier can think of several people who are very fond of him and his ass, but he decides not to mention that. “I have an idea for another story, actually.”

“What is it?” From the look on Valdo’s face, it’s clear he’s already going to say no.

Jaskier tries anyway. “Marcus Weiss was killed by the Shrike last night.”

“So? That’s a story for the crime beat.”

“They can deal with the gory details of the actual killing. I’m more interested in the effects on the music industry.” And the gory details, but Jaskier decides not to mention that. “I have experience writing these kinds of stories.”

Valdo snorts. “You mean, you have experience with sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong and nearly getting yourself killed.”

“My articles about the Ghoul were popular.”

“An article written by an orangutan about the Ghoul would have been popular. Everyone was fascinated with him. Guess all you need to do to get famous in this town is eat a few people.”

Eight in Temeria, nine in Cintra, five in Novigrad. Almost six in Novigrad. A memory comes to Jaskier, unbidden. The edge of a scalpel grazing along his jawline, not quite pressing hard enough to draw blood, as a cool, calm voice told him exactly what was about to happen to him. He clenches his fists to stop his hands from shaking. “I’m sure we could run it by the Countess, if you have your doubts, Valdo.”

Valdo’s lips pinch together. Jaskier hates playing the “hey, I used to fuck our boss and now I’m one of her favorites because I’m that good in bed” card, but oh, he loves the look on Valdo’s face when he does.

“You write for the _entertainment section_ , Pankratz,” Valdo says. “You’re here to write about music. When people look for your byline, if anyone but your mother looks for your byline—”

“Oh, trust me, my mother never looks for my byline,” Jaskier tells him.

Valdo ignores him. “--They’re expecting a review of a concert, or an interview with an up and coming new singer, or coverage of an awards show. They aren’t expecting blood and death. The only murder you should be concerning yourself with is what some of your purple prose does to the common tongue.”

Jaskier bristles, mostly because that was a good insult, damn it, and how dare Valdo be the one to come up with it?

“But if you want to research the Shrike on your own time, go ahead,” Valdo says. “Maybe she’ll have better luck than the Ghoul.”

Before Jaskier can come up with a suitably cunning reply, Valdo stalks away. Jaskier slumps into his chair. “Well, that wasn’t a no.”

“Wasn’t a yes, either,” Essi calls over the shared wall of their cubicles.

“Let’s focus on the lack of no.”

“You’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?”

Jaskier grins. “You’ve known me way too long, Ess.”

“Oh trust me, I know.”

***

The workday is too busy for Geralt to spend much time thinking about Jaskier, Ciri, or the Shrike. He’s working on an article about a string of armed robberies uptown and getting anyone at the police department to talk to him has gotten much harder now that he’s not having dinner with Mousesack and his wife once a month. He hesitates to call Mousesack about non-Witcher related business, now that the Jaskier connection isn’t there. Geralt Rivia has no reason to think he can call the police detective who seems to see his ex-boyfriend as a surrogate son.

By the time Geralt sends the admittedly sad excuse for an article to his boss, Foltest, he’s exhausted and can feel the beginning of a headache forming behind his eyes. Too many sleepless nights are beginning to catch up with him. Coen asks him if he wants to go get drinks with Eskel and Lambert. Coen always asks, because he’s that kind of guy, but Geralt turns him down, like always. Coen seems to like him well enough, but Lambert barely tolerates him and it’s impossible to tell what Eskel thinks about anyone. Instead, Geralt heads to the grocery store. He’s going to make Ciri a nice dinner and they’re going to sit down and eat together before he goes out on patrol tonight. Maybe spaghetti and ice cream will make up for whatever he did wrong.

He’s just leaving the grocery store, a loaf of bread and a gallon of milk in one arm and a bag with pasta, spaghetti sauce, and enough ice cream to feed a family of five for a month in the other, when a soft voice calls, “Mr. Rivia?”

Geralt turns and finds a young woman standing in front of a black sedan. She’s pretty, moon-faced and dimpled with her sandy hair pulled back into a complicated-looking twist. She smiles sweetly at him.

“Yes?” Geralt asks cautiously. She doesn’t look like a threat, but he doesn’t know who else is in that car.

“You’re Geralt Rivia?”

“I think you know the answer to that question, or you wouldn’t have stopped me.”

“I was hoping you would come with me.” She opens the back door to the car.

“I’m afraid I’m going to dash your hopes.” He thinks about the Shrike, then dismisses that thought. This girl doesn’t have enough arm muscles to thrust a pike through a man’s abdomen. “I don’t get in cars with strangers. Especially when they don’t have candy.”

“My name is Marilka,” she says. “My employer wants to talk to you.”

Geralt mentally catalogs the last few stories he’s worked on. Armed robbery, a missing kid in the suburbs, a restaurant that turned out to be a front for a human trafficking ring. Nothing that would cause an assistant in a sleek car to pull up and issue vague requests for a talk. “And who’s your employer?”

“Stregobor, CEO of Black Sun Industries. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

Geralt snorts. Of course he’s heard of Black Sun Industries. Yennefer complains about them constantly, how they’ve commercialized magic and made it nearly impossible for small magic shop owners like her to make a living. “If Stregobor wants a puff piece written about all the jobs he’s brought to Novigrad, that’s not really my department. I’m the guy you don’t want writing about your company. I only show up when there’s been a murder in the lobby.”

“He doesn’t want a puff piece. Just a conversation.” Marilka’s eyes twinkle with mischief and Geralt realizes that she’s loving the mysterious messenger routine. This is probably the highlight of the girl’s week. Maybe her month.

“Most people use phones when they want a conversation. Or email.”

“He likes to do things a little differently.” She rocks back on her heels, a childish gesture, then seems to catch herself. “Come with me, please. It’s getting cold out.”

Geralt pauses, considering. Marilka isn’t a threat. He could walk away now, and there’s nothing she could do to stop him. But he knows men like Stregobor. If he doesn’t go with Marilka, someone else will show up, possibly at his office or at his apartment. This person will most likely be larger, meaner, and armed. Geralt will have two options--to go quietly, or fight. If he fights, there will just be another person showing up at his door, and collateral damage might get involved. Like Ciri or Jaskier.

“Fine,” he says. “But next time, bring candy.”

She beams at him and ushers him into the car. Geralt is relieved to see that it’s just the two of them in the backseat, with an unseen driver on the other side of the divider.

“This seems like a lot of trouble to go through for a conversation,” he says. “No idea what he wants?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I’m just his assistant. Not even his assistant, actually. I’m his assistant’s assistant. He just asked me to come find you. I tried to get to you outside your office, but traffic was a bitch and we got stuck behind a garbage truck. Driving in Novigrad, am I right?”

Geralt hasn’t decided whether or not to reply before Marilka launches into a monologue. She talks at him for the entirety of the twenty minute drive to Stregobor Tower, apparently deciding that she can drop the mysterious act. She tells him about her childhood in Blaviken, about how boring Blaviken is, about her absurd amount of siblings, about what a cow her mother is. She shows him multiple videos of her family dog (he shows her a video of Roach licking peanut butter off her nose; it’s only fair.) She seems like a sweet enough kid, and he would probably like her well enough, if it weren’t for the fact that she’s the reason his ice cream is melting.

Her constant chatter gives Geralt the time he needs to consider the possible reasons for this impromptu talk. Stregobor could want to talk to him about a story he wrote, or a story he wants Geralt to write. He could be a bored, rich asshole who wants a journalist on his payroll. Hell, this could be about Yennefer. She could easily have pissed Stregobor off. She’s been a hostage for Geralt a couple of times; it would only be fair for Geralt to eventually get taken hostage for her.

Geralt can feel the weight of the potion in his shoulder bag. Without it, he’s just a normal human. A normal human who knows a hundred different ways to kill a man, but still, human. No enhanced physical capabilities, no sharpened senses, no magical abilities. He can be stabbed, shot, strangled, cursed into nothingness. His hands itch to grab the potion and down it in one gulp, but that would be hasty. Geralt doesn’t do hasty; that’s how people get killed.

“Don’t be worried.” Marilka pats him fondly on the knee as the car pulls up in front of Stregobor Tower. “He’s not as scary as the stories say. He’s a good boss, actually. I get two weeks paid vacation. Two weeks!”

“Hm.”

“Mama said no one would hire me when I dropped out of college, that I’d end up flipping burgers, but he hired me in the middle of my interview! He said he liked my spirit.”

Marilka regals him with all the benefits of working for Black Sun Industries on their way up to the top floor. And he thought the forty-five floor elevator ride that morning was long. Stregobor Tower is the tallest building in the city; there are rumors that when there were plans to build a taller skyscraper a couple of blocks away, Stregobor bought and dismantled the company. On principle, Geralt doesn’t trust men that are that invested in the height of their skyscrapers.

“I always wanted to be a sorceress,” Marilka tells him cheerfully. “But when I applied to Aretuza, I scored in the lowest one percentile for magical talent. The rectoress said I was about as magical as a desk lamp. But working here is the next best thing!”

If Yennefer were here, she would sniff and say that the swill Black Sun Industries produces hardly counts as magic. Geralt just grunts, shifting his groceries in his arms. If worst comes to worst, he could probably drown someone in the melted ice cream.

When the elevator door finally opens on the top floor of Stregobor Tower, Geralt is greeted with the sight of an open, modern space with walls lined with floor-to-ceiling windows. The handful of employees scattering the space, all either talking on the phone or typing away busily at computers, are young, female, and attractive. Several of them glance curiously at Geralt and Marilka as they walk by. Geralt knows he’s out of place in this sleek, stylish office.

Marilka pushes open a set of double doors and leads Geralt into an office the size of the entire workroom at the Press. Two men are waiting there, one seated at a large, stainless steel desk, the other standing behind him. The seated man is older and gray-haired with a neatly trimmed beard. Geralt recognizes him immediately as Stregobor, the CEO of Black Sun Industries, known for going by only one name like some kind of aging rock star, dating starlets half his age, donating to the worst political candidates, and ruthlessly eliminating all competition in the magic industry.

Geralt doesn’t recognize the younger man behind Stregobor. The man is young, probably in his early thirties, and thin, with an angular face and dark hair. Both men watch Geralt like he’s a particularly interesting specimen in a Petri dish. He dislikes both of them instantly.

“That will be all, Marilka,” Stregobor says, smiling at the young woman in what would be a fatherly fashion, if his eyes weren’t fastened on her legs.

“Nice to meet you, Geralt.” She twinkles up at him before leaving.

“Take care, Marilka,” he says, then turns his attention back to the two men.

“Mr. Rivia.” Stregobor stands. “Thank you for joining us.”

“I wasn’t under the impression I had a choice.”

The sorcerer smirks. “Surely, you didn’t view Marilka as a threat.”

“No, but I assume if I’d told her to fuck off, someone more intimidating would be stopping by my apartment later.”

“Please, sit.” Stregobor gestures to the chair across from him.

“I’d rather stand.”

“This may be a lengthy conversation.”

“It won’t be,” Geralt says. “I’m going to save us all some time. Whatever story you want me to retract, the answer is no. If it’s a story you want me to write, the answer is no. If you’re offering me a bribe to not write a story, the answer is go fuck yourself. Does that cover everything?”

Stregobor chuckles. “You misunderstand me, Mr. Rivia. I’m not interested in talking to Geralt Rivia, reporter for the Press. I brought you here because I have a problem that only the Witcher can solve.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who have read my other work, you'll know that this is now the second multi-chapter fic I've written where Stregobor is the worst, because I just can't get enough of writing about him getting his ass kicked.
> 
> #justiceforrenfri


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stregobor issues an ultimatum and Geralt comes face to face with the Shrike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: discussions of sexual assault and child death.
> 
> Renfri's background is discussed in this chapter. I kept it somewhat similar to canon and haven't gone into any graphic details, but please proceed with caution.

The last time someone discovered that Geralt was the Witcher, it nearly got Geralt and Jaskier killed. His name was Cahir, though no one knew that at the time. They just called him the Black Knight, the assassin who had been preying on people with magical abilities all over the Continent. He must have gotten the truth about the Witcher’s identity out of Calanthe and Eist, his final victims. Geralt has never been sure; he’s avoided details about his friends’ deaths. He doesn’t want to know what could have caused a woman like Calanthe to break.

When Geralt arrived back in Novigrad after visiting the smoldering wreckage of Calanthe’s home, he found three of Cahir’s men in his apartment. Jaskier was bound and gagged in the closet. Geralt will never forget the sounds of Jaskier’s panicked, labored breathing. After dispatching the men, Geralt went to a terrified Jaskier.

“My boyfriend,” Jaskier said desperately, and only then did Geralt remember that he was dressed as the Witcher and Jaskier had no idea who he was. He’d been about to embrace Jaskier. “Geralt. They were here for him. I don’t know if it was about a story he wrote or what, but they’re going to kill him. I don’t know where he is.”

And Geralt stood there, frozen with indecision, as Jaskier kept trying to call him and grew increasingly terrified every time a call went to voicemail. He knew that the merciful thing to do would be to take off his mask and tell Jaskier the truth, but also knew that nothing would ever be the same once he made that decision. Two people he had cared about had just died because someone learned who they really were. Geralt didn’t think Jaskier would betray him willingly, but neither had Calanthe and Eist. There were lots of ways to extract information from an unwilling subject.

“I’ll go find him,” Geralt said. “I’ll bring him back.”

Jaskier’s face melted into relief. “Oh, gods, thank you. Thank you so much.”

And that was Geralt’s plan. He would leave the apartment as the Witcher and come back as Geralt an hour or so later, with a strategically placed black eye and a story about having been ambushed by assassins and saved by the Witcher. That was what he would have done, had he not run into Cahir. The fight was the most brutal of Geralt’s life. His potion wore off halfway through and he was badly injured, but he managed to kill Cahir and stumble his way to Yennefer’s shop for healing. He passed out on her doorstep and didn’t wake up until morning.

When he found Jaskier at Essi and Shani's apartment later that morning, Jaskier was sitting with Essi on her couch, his head in his hands. He’d changed out of his bloody clothing, but the corner of his mouth was caked with dried blood from where he’d been punched in the face. The sight made Geralt want to kill Cahir and his men all over again. As soon as Shani let Geralt into the apartment, Jaskier saw him and smiled, looking relieved enough to cry. It was the last time Jaskier would ever smile at Geralt. He’d spent the night before trying desperately to get in touch with Geralt and Yennefer and getting their voicemail boxes over and over. Once he hugged Geralt and smelled Yennefer's perfume on him, it was easy for Jaskier to draw conclusions.

And Geralt should have corrected him. He should have done whatever it took to erase the look of horror and betrayal on Jaskier’s face. But he was exhausted and grieving and at that moment, he thought _this is better, no one will have any reason to hurt him if he hates me, he’ll be far away from me and no one will use him again._ And maybe he was right. Maybe this is better. But it doesn’t feel better, whenever he wakes up to an empty bed or sees Jaskier in an elevator and has to watch Jaskier’s heart shatter all over again.

The last time someone discovered that Geralt was the Witcher, it ruined his life.

***

There’s ice cream dripping down Geralt’s arm. It's leaking out of the bag he’s holding. He can feel it, cold and sticky, through the fabric of his shirt. He hopes it leaves a hell of a stain on Stregobor’s carpet.

“Now, I’m going to save us all some time.” Stregobor wears the smirk of someone who knows he has his opponent exactly where he wants them. “You’re about to deny everything and tell me that I don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re just a mild mannered reporter who knows nothing about the Witcher. But let me tell you what I know.”

Geralt doesn’t reply.

“Your name is Geralt Rivia, though I’m sure that’s not your real name, since I can find no record of any babies born under that name, nor any school records. When you applied to your current position at _The Continental Press_ you told them you had a degree from the University of Lyria. I can find no record of you attending the university. In fact, I can’t find out much about you before you moved to Novigrad three years ago. Some menial jobs, a few apartment leases, an application for a car loan. Besides that, you’re a ghost.”

Geralt cocks an eyebrow. “You’re calling me in here because I exaggerated on my resume? Not all of us can count on being hired for our spirit.”

“We called you here because for the last nineteen years, you’ve been operating as a vigilante. The first record of you was when you stopped the assault of a young hiker in the mountains. The three men who attacked her were slaughtered.”

Geralt’s hands tighten on his grocery bags at the memory. “Sounds like they deserved it.”

“Perhaps. For over a decade, you popped up all over the Continent, battling men and monsters alike. In the early days, you were known for your brutality. They called you the Butcher for a while, didn’t they? It wasn’t until your time in Ard Carraigh eight years ago that they started calling you the Witcher, after the monster hunters of old. It was around that time that you started softening your approach. Capturing instead of killing. Taking a moment to comfort the people you saved. I’m curious about what caused the change. Did you realize you made a mistake killing someone? Was an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire? Did you witness a child or a mother or a wife weeping over the body of someone you’d just executed?”

“Ever thought about writing fiction, Stregobor? You have a knack for it.”

Stregobor ignores him. “And then three years ago, you followed the serial killer known as the Ghoul here from Cintra. But even after the Ghoul was arrested, you remained in Novigrad. The longest the Witcher has stayed in any one place. How interesting.”

Geralt shifts, redistributing his weight so he can throw a punch more easily if he needs to. “Whoever the Witcher is, he must like the city. I live here because this is where my job is.”

“Mr. Rivia, I’ve been watching you for months now. If you’d like, I can pull up hours worth of video footage that makes it evident that you’re the Witcher. Since I imagine you’d like to get home soon, why don’t we skip that bit?”

Geralt is silent for a beat. “What do you want?”

Stregobor’s smile is growing infuriating. “Istredd and I--oh, I’m sorry, this is Istredd, the head of my science division. How rude, I never introduced you. Istredd and I have some questions for you, Geralt. Is it alright if I call you Geralt?”

“Hm.”

“I’m curious,” Istredd says, still studying Geralt. “You’re completely human right now. Not a trace of magic on you. So how do your powers work? What triggers them? Is it a spell? A potion? The wolf medallion the Witcher wears?”

Geralt doesn’t answer.

“I saw the surveillance videos of you,” Istredd continues. “Your entire demeanor changes as the effects of whatever turns you into the Witcher wear off. You hold yourself differently. You walk slower. It’s fascinating.”

“It’s a potion,” Geralt says. He’s not sure why he says it and he wonders if one of the sorcerers is doing something to make him more pliant. It’s an unnerving possibility.

Istredd looks delighted. “A potion? Amazing. What are its properties? How do you prepare it? How often do you take it and how long do the effects last?”

If they are doing something to Geralt, it’s subtle. Not full mind control, but a gentle prod. He wants to tell Istredd and Stregobor what they want to know, which is a good indication that something is wrong. Geralt never _wants_ to talk to anyone. He manages to dodge the more dangerous questions by answering the more benign. “I can take it once or twice a day, maybe three times, but that’s pushing it. It typically lasts between three and four hours. The more active I am while taking it, the quicker it metabolizes.”

“It would be fascinating to get a look at a sample.”

“Wouldn’t it.” Geralt’s hand doesn’t even twitch towards his shoulder bag, though he wants to. He wants to hand over his emergency reserve of potion to Istredd with a smile. He’s going to stab both these smarmy bastards in the face someday, he decides.

“And the effects,” Istredd says. “Enhanced physical capabilities, heightened senses, the ability to cast signs. Plus, the change in eye color. Am I missing anything?”

“No. Would you like to discuss my skincare regimen next?”

Istredd looks at him doubtfully. “Do you have a skincare regimen?”

“No.” Not for Jaskier’s lack of trying.

“Would you like me to have someone take your groceries away for you?” Stregobor is looking at the ever-growing puddle of melted ice cream on the floor.

Geralt ignores the question. “What do you want? Because whatever mind fuckery you’re trying to pull right now won’t stop me from leaving here.”

“Yes, but the armed guards might,” Stregobor says with a sneer.

Geralt puts down his groceries. “Was that a threat?”

The sorcerer draws back. Even without his Witcher capabilities, Geralt is an imposing man. People tend to forget that because of the glasses and the khakis, which is exactly what Geralt wants.

“We have a problem only you can solve,” Istredd says. “Have you heard of the Shrike?”

“I work for a newspaper, Istredd. Of course I’ve heard of the fucking Shrike.”

The man at least has the decency to look embarrassed. “Right, of course.”

“You want me to stop the Shrike?” Geralt looks between them. “That’s what this is all about? What, are you afraid she’ll come for you next, Stregobor? How many of those women outside have stories about your hands wandering during nights working late? Or do you make them forget afterwards?”

“That is not what this is about,” Stregobor says huffily. “I would never behave inappropriately towards an employee.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. I’m sure Marcus Weiss said the same thing. I’m already looking into the Shrike situation. There was no need to ambush me and ruin my ice cream.”

“I don’t like what you’re implying, Witcher.” Some of Stregobor’s charming facade is slipping, which is gratifying. Geralt doesn’t have time for charming facades.

“I’m not implying anything. A vigilante has been eliminating men who harm women. You want that vigilante taken care of. You have to be worried that you're the next target.” Geralt picks up his groceries and turns away. “I’ll deal with the Shrike, but not for you.”

“I have information that you might find valuable,” Stregobor says. “Sit down, Geralt.”

Geralt has no intention of sitting down, but he finds his legs moving of their own accord. Fuck, he hates sorcerers. He doesn’t fight the magic, because he will most likely fail and that will be embarrassing, but he fixes the two men with what Jaskier always calls his “scary face.” Istredd takes a step back.

“Here at Black Sun Industries, we pride ourselves on being on the cutting edge of science and magic,” Stregobor says, in the smooth tones of a practiced sales pitch. “We are always striving to improve our product. However, with innovation, there is always failure. Twenty years ago, Istredd’s predecessor oversaw the development of Project Lilit.”

Geralt has a feeling he’s supposed to “ooh” and “ahh” at this part. He does not.

“The aim of Project Lilit was to enhance both the magical and physical capabilities in young people,” Stregobor says. “To create a more powerful breed of sorcerer.”

“You mean, a more powerful breed of supersoldier,” Geralt says.

“I won’t lie, we considered the military implications. But we were far more interested in the magic. We discovered early on that the younger the children were, the more successful our experiments were. We also discovered that for whatever reason, girls had a much higher success rate. However, the failure rate was high. Many of the children self-destructed. Others had to be…removed from the program.”

“Killed, you mean.”

Stregobor grimaces. “Distasteful, but the merciful decision, I assure you. When they were dissected postmortem, the subjects showed signs of profound internal mutations. Missing organs that they shouldn’t have been able to live without, organs in entirely the wrong place. One girl even had two hearts. We eventually came to the sad conclusion that Project Lilit had to be disbanded. However, there were a handful of survivors that we kept for observation. One’s name was Renfri Creyden. She was three years old when she came to us.”

Geralt’s fists clench in his lap.

“Early on, Renfri showed great promise with the physical mutations. She was the strongest and the fastest of our subjects. However, instead of developing heightened magical abilities, she became completely immune to magic. Spells, charms, potions. None of it had any effect on her. She was also… cold. Cruel. She showed no interest in developing friendships with her fellow test subjects. She scratched, bit, and hit several doctors. One lost a good portion of her ear. However, when Renfri was fourteen, there was an… unfortunate incident. Now, you must know that this would never have happened had I known. It certainly wouldn’t have happened if I had Istredd on my team.”

Istredd preens.

“There was a young doctor who developed a fascination with Renfri,” Stregobor says. “She had to be strapped down for many of the tests conducted on her because of her tendency to attack doctors. It was hard to get people to agree to work with her, so he was often the only one in the room with her. I’m sure you can imagine what happened next.”

“I’m trying not to.” Fourteen. Only a little younger than Ciri.

“We don’t know how long this was going on until one night, the fool tried to visit her in her room. She’d somehow managed to get her hands on a scalpel. She stabbed him seventeen times and then made her way through our facility, killing every member of the staff she came across. Before she escaped, she killed twelve of my people.”

“Is this the part where I’m supposed to weep with sympathy? You experiment on little girls, Stregobor, sometimes the little girls grow up to fight back.”

Stregobor swells with indignation. “Some of those people had families, Witcher.”

“Just like the families those girls may have grown up to have if you hadn’t kidnapped them.”

“There was no kidnapping. Many of the girls were orphans or wards of the foster system. Renfri’s stepmother handed her over to us willingly. But we’re getting off track here. After butchering a lab full of innocent people, Renfri spent the next eight years popping on and off our radar. She’s been involved in everything from murder for hire to drug smuggling to con artistry. It was only a year ago that she took on the persona of the Shrike when she killed a friend and fellow sorcerer of mine.”

“A sorcerer who kept a harem of women ensnared by love spells.”

“Rumors of that were greatly exaggerated.” Stregobor sniffs. “She’s killed dozens of men, all over the Continent. Many of them were my friends and business associates.”

“Maybe you need better friends.”

“If you look at the killings, she’s been moving closer and closer to Novigrad. She’s been taunting me this whole time. And now that she’s here, I know she’ll be coming for me.”

“Hm.”

“The Shrike is dangerous. Anyone who plays judge, jury, and executioner like that will make a mistake eventually. An innocent person will die, if one hasn’t already. She needs to be stopped, permanently. I need you to get back to your Butcher roots, Geralt. You need to kill the Shrike.”

Geralt gives him a long, measured look. “No.”

“No prison will hold her. They rely too heavily on protective spells that she’ll be able to get through. She needs to die.”

“Maybe, but I’m not going to be the one to kill her. I only kill when I have to. I’m not a hired assassin.” Geralt says, standing up.

“You don’t want to walk out that door, Geralt,” Stregobor says calmly.

“Actually, I do.” Geralt begins to stride towards the door.

“You’ll do what I say, because you’re currently the legal guardian of a young lady named Cirilla Riannon, the granddaughter of Calanthe Riannon, also known as the Lioness of Cintra. So far, it’s largely been kept out of the press that the Lioness had a sixteen year old granddaughter. Which is lucky for the girl, as Calanthe had plenty of enemies. If Ciri’s name and her current residence became public knowledge, things could become very unsafe for the young lady. Especially if it becomes known that she has her grandmother’s powers.”

Slowly, Geralt turns towards him. “Leave her out of this.”

“I hope I’ll be able to,” Stregobor says. “And then there’s a matter of your associate, Yennefer Vengerberg. The two of you were romantically linked for nearly a decade and she’s a frequent visitor at your apartment. She’s there right now, in fact, with Cirilla.”

“If you think you can threaten Yennefer’s life, you’re going to be disappointed. She could reduce you to a greasy stain on the floor.”

“Of course not. But were you aware that Miss Vengerberg is part elf? Such things are more acceptable than they were when I was young, but there are still plenty of people who would hesitate to give their business to a halfling. And those who might not care personally, but would be concerned about the political ramifications. Like the deputy mayor and his wife, who are regulars at Miss Vengerberg’s shop. She would certainly lose business if her heritage were to come to light.”

Geralt’s jaw works, but he says nothing.

“And then, of course, there’s a young man by the name of Julian Pankratz, known as Jaskier to his friends,” Stregobor says. “You know, Geralt, I kept trying to figure out what kept you in Novigrad after the Ghoul was dealt with. You’ve never stayed anywhere for more than a few months before, as far as I can tell. The only thing that I could think of was Mr. Pankratz. The two of you were involved for two years and even after your break up, you still leap to his defense whenever anything threatens his life.”

Geralt can feel his grasp tightening on the groceries. “Jaskier has nothing to do with this. He doesn’t even know.”

“Noble of you, trying to keep him safe. Is that why the two of you ended your relationship?”

“That is none of your fucking business.”

“As of yesterday, I own the building where Mr. Pankratz lives,” Stregobor says. “It would be terribly unfortunate if I decided to evict all the tenants to, I don’t know, convert the building to luxury condos. The poor boy could end up on the street. He doesn’t even have a car to live in. Which could especially be dangerous for him if anyone learns about your true identity. If it becomes public knowledge that Geralt Rivia and the Witcher are the same person, everyone you care about will become a target. And what better target than the man you still love?”

Geralt probably won’t be quick enough to break his neck without the aid of a potion, but he still may try. “You don’t go near him. You don’t go near any of them.”

“You have until the end of the month to bring me the Shrike’s head,” Stregobor says. “Or else I destroy the lives of the three people you love the most. Are we clear? This is the lesser evil, Geralt. The Shrike needs to die before more people get hurt. Surely you can see that.”

“It’s not up to us to decide what’s the lesser evil.”

“Someone has to. Who would you like me to start with? The lion cub? The halfling witch? Or the spurned lover?”

Geralt thinks of Ciri, who’s already had her life uprooted once in the last six months. He thinks of Yennefer, who worked so hard to establish herself in Novigrad and open her own shop. And he thinks of Jaskier, whose life he already ruined once. And he says the only thing he can say. “I’ll need all the information you can give me on Renfri Creyden.”

***

Jaskier is three bowls of cereal and four hours deep into researching the Shrike. This is one of his favorite parts of a new story. The writing comes naturally to him, and he’s met a lot of interesting people in interviews. But he lives for these brainstorming sessions, when everything is new and exciting and he can taste how good this story is going to be, Valdo be damned. Lots of people have written about the Shrike, but Jaskier is determined that his story is going to be different. He just needs to find an angle. He’s made a couple of calls, but no one has been willing to talk to him so far, which isn’t unusual. If he keeps trying, he’ll find something.

The Shrike never covers her face, so there are plenty of police sketches available online, as well as a couple of blurry surveillance photos. The sketches all show roughly the same face: young and pretty with golden brown eyes, framed by chin-length, wavy brown hair. The Shrike looks perfectly normal, like someone you’d see at the drugstore or at a bar. Maybe that’s why she’s been able to escape detection, even without hiding her true face from the world. There are probably ten thousand women in Novigrad who match her general description.

Jaskier studies one of the few clear photos taken of the Shrike, captured by a security camera outside the home of one of her first victims, an actor known for drugging and assaulting his co stars. She’s wearing a tiny smirk and her eyes seem alive with mischief, like she’s in the middle of telling a dirty joke. Jaskier wonders what kind of things must happen to a person to make them devote their lives to killing the worst of the worst. He feels a twinge of pity for her. Whoever she is, she can’t have had an easy go of it.

There’s a knock on his window and he jerks in surprise. He finds Detective Mousesack standing on his fire escape.

“I’m too old to be climbing in and out of windows,” Mousesack says by way of greeting as he clambers inside. “And that dresser in front of your door is a fire hazard.”

“Good thing you’re a homicide detective, and not the fire marshal,” Jaskier says.

Mousesack smooths down the front of his suit. He always looks dapper for a detective, dressed in well-tailored suits and ties. He’s even wearing cufflinks. “I got a call from our mutual friend last night.”

“Wait, you have his number? Can I have it?”

“No, you cannot. Have you had dinner yet?”

Jaskier glances over at his desk, where his half-finished bowl of cereal is getting soggy. “Two and a half bowls of cereal.”

The detective sighs. “That isn’t dinner. Come on, let’s get you some real food.”

Ten minutes later, they’re sitting at a red and white checkered booth at the deli across the street from Jaskier’s building. Jaskier slathers his roast beef sandwich in more horseradish and mustard than is socially acceptable while Mousesack used a fork and knife to eat his tuna melt.

“The man who attacked you is at Order of Melitele Hospital,” Mousesack says. “He had so many drugs in his system, it’s amazing he could see clear enough to point a gun at you. Yet again, you got very, very lucky.”

“I know.” Jaskier has been trying not to think of what would have happened if the Witcher hadn’t been there. He likes to think he would have been able to talk his way out of it, but his attacker was very angry and that gun was pointed directly at his forehead.

“I’m here to take your statement, which I shouldn’t have to do, by the way. When someone gets a gun waved at them, they usually call the police themselves. I shouldn’t hear it from third parties when you nearly get yourself killed.”

Jaskier winces. “Sorry, Mousesack. I didn’t even think about it, to be honest.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Mousesack takes his notebook out of his pocket. “Tell me what happened.”

Jaskier alternates between devouring his roast beef sandwich and telling Mousesack about the entire incident, from the moment the gun was pulled on him outside his apartment building to the Witcher leaping to his rescue. He’s aware that he should be more freaked out by the whole thing. Of course it was scary; someone almost shot him. But he’s had scarier things happen to him--several of them, in fact--and this hardly registers on the list of traumatizing near death experiences.

Mousesack seems to be thinking the same thing as Jaskier reaches the end of his story. “You seem awfully calm for someone who was threatened with a gun last night.”

Jaskier smiles without much humor. “Wasn’t the first time someone has pointed a gun at me.”

_On his knees in the closet of his and Geralt’s bedroom, hands tied behind his back and the cold muzzle of a gun pressed to the base of his skull. “Tell us where your boyfriend is, and you don’t have to die.”_

Jaskier would have died for Geralt that night. He never would have told those men where Geralt was, or at least where Jaskier thought he was, working late at the office. He was terrified, so scared that he thought he would throw up, but he would have taken a bullet for the man he loved. And meanwhile, Geralt was with Yennefer.

“That isn’t something that people normally get used to, Jaskier,” Mousesack says.

“Next time it happens, I promise I’ll be more rattled.”

“Next time?” Mousesack raises his eyes to the heavens, like he thinks he’ll find answers to why Jaskier is the way he is there. “Kid, you’re giving me gray hairs.”

“Your hair was already completely gray when we met. You can’t blame me for the aging process.”

Mousesack snorts. “The good thing is, I imagine the lawyers will reach a deal with some jail time and rehab. It’s an open and shut case, so I can’t see it going to trial. You shouldn’t have to testify.”

Jaskier drags a pickle through a puddle of mustard. “Well, there’s a silver lining.”

He thinks about asking Mousesack about the Shrike. It seems like a waste to have a homicide detective sitting across from him and not ask. But he knows that not only will Mousesack not answer his questions, he’ll have plenty of opinions about Jaskier writing about yet another superpowered vigilante. Most of those opinions will probably boil down to “what the fuck are you doing?” and “are you trying to get yourself killed?” Mousesack has known Jaskier through too many near-death experiences; it’s best to keep him out of the loop on some things.

So instead he eats his sandwich and asks after Mousesack’s wife and kids, and for at least a while, pretends that everything is normal.

***

Geralt knows every street, every building, and every alleyway in Novigrad. He may have only lived in the city for three years, but he knows it better than many longtime residents. Tonight, he travels through alleys and seedy side streets with methodical intensity. A light snow is falling, dusting Geralt’s shoulders with white. It’s early in the season for snow, but Novigrad weather has never seemed to care about such things.

About half of the Shrike’s victims have been men like Marcus Weiss, high-profile, wealthy assholes who have escaped justice time and time again. The other half have been men that she’s come across attacking women. He’s counting on her being in the hunt for the latter tonight.

It turns out he’s wrong. The Shrike isn’t on the hunt for a wife beater or mugger; she’s on the hunt for a Witcher.

He’s skulking along the train tracks, keeping to the shadows, when he hears quiet footfalls behind him. Geralt has just taken his second dose of potion for the night and his senses are at his sharpest. He turns, drawing both swords in one swift motion, and finds himself face to face with a young woman. She doesn’t step back or flinch away. She just regards him with a faint, amused curl of her lips. She holds a sharpened pike in her hand, which she’s twirling carelessly.

“Two swords?” she asks. “I’m flattered. Truly. You have no idea how frustrating it is when I get underestimated.”

“I wouldn’t underestimate you, Renfri.”

Her smile is all bared teeth. “Oh, you know my name. So Stregobor told you everything, did he? And you’re still working for him.”

“I’m not working for him,” Geralt says, too quickly. 

“Does he know that?”

Geralt doesn’t answer. A train zips by, so close that it ruffles their clothing and Renfri’s hair.

“When I heard that Stregobor had hired the Witcher, I thought my sources had to be wrong,” she says once the train passes. “The hero who walks into burning buildings to save bedbound old women and returns kidnapped children to their parents couldn’t be on that bastard’s payroll.”

“He’s not paying me shit.”

“So he has something on you then. What is it? Is he going to tell everyone your real name? Does he have your girlfriend tied up in a basement somewhere?”

Geralt looks at the Shrike. At Renfri. He knew she was young, only twenty-three, but knowing her date of birth is world’s away from having a young woman who looks like she could be a student at Oxenfurt in front of him. Truthfully, he hadn’t decided what he was going to do about Stregobor’s ultimatum until now. He’s not a hired assassin, but there are three innocent people in the crossfire and he can’t let anything happen to them. But he can’t kill this girl. Something about the way she looks at him, utterly without fear, reminds him of Jaskier.

Jaskier, who will lose his home if Geralt doesn’t kill her.

Fuck.

“Leave Novigrad,” he tells her.

She quirks an eyebrow up. “Excuse me?”

“Leave Novigrad tonight. Get out of the city and don’t come back, ever.”

“Or what?”

“I don’t want to kill you, but I can’t let you kill anyone else.”

“Even if they deserve it?”

“That’s not for people for us to decide. That’s for the police, the courts, and a jury of their peers.”

“The police and the courts never touch men like Marcus Weiss. Or Stregobor, for that matter. I won’t leave Novigrad until my business here is done. You should stay out of my way, Witcher.”

“Or what?” Geralt doesn’t mean for the words to come out a taunt, but they do.

Her expression hardens. “Whatever Stregobor has threatened you with, I’ll do ten times worse.”

Geralt steps towards her. “That was the wrong thing to say.”

She strikes first, the pike aimed at his abdomen. He just manages to deflect it with his swords. Renfri is quick, almost as quick as him, and she strikes fast and hard. Geralt is on the defensive from the start, using one of his swords to parry the blows from her pike while trying to strike her with the other sword. She dodges and weaves without effort. Her gaze is fixed on his face, hard and cold. She gets a lucky hit and one of his swords clatters to the ground. Unthinkingly, he casts Igni. The flames dance over her skin, but don't burn her. She shoots him an incredulous look and aims the pike for his heart. He rolls out of the way and scoops his fallen sword off the ground. Swords raised, he lunges at her.

Geralt isn’t sure how it happens, but next thing he knows, he’s flat on his back on the ground, his cheek pressed against the train tracks. Renfri kneels on top of him with one knee digging into his chest while her pike presses against his throat. In the distance, he can hear the rumble of an approaching train.

“Later, I want you to remember this,” Renfri growls. There’s nothing human in her face.

Geralt opens his mouth, but he can’t breathe, let alone speak.

“I want you to remember how I could have killed you here, but I didn’t,” she says.

Light floods the tracks as the train speeds towards them and Geralt experiences a moment of pure panic before Renfri fists her hand in his hood and jerks his head up. The train whizzes by, only inches from his head. The noise is deafening, disorienting, and Geralt’s head spins.

He doesn’t notice that Renfri is gone until the train has passed and the night is deathly silent.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I've taken quite a few liberties with canon, especially concerning Geralt's powers, so if anything is confusing or unclear, feel free to let me know! I'm always happy to clarify.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a run-in with Geralt, Jaskier goes to a club with Essi and Shani to blow off some steam and gets more than he bargained for.

Renfri gets the call in the wee hours of the morning, while she’s still nursing her wounds from the fight with the Witcher. Nothing major--bruised ribs, a wrist that’s a bit tender from the impact of his swords against her pike, a shallow cut in her upper arm. They’ll be healed by the end of the day. When she picks up her phone, she doesn’t speak, just waits for the person on the other end to say something.

“Someone is looking for you.” It’s Isola, her contact at the Blaviken Police Department. “They just called about the Irion murder.”

Renfri snorts. “A lot of people are looking for me.”

“It’s the Witcher’s reporter.”

Renfri pauses in the middle of rubbing salve on her ribs. “The Witcher has a reporter?”

“That’s what people say. The Witcher has saved the kid’s life a couple of times and now he gets fawning reports of his exploits written for _The Continental Press_." Isola’s tone drips disdain, which Renfri finds ironic coming from a police officer feeding information to a murderer.

“Isn’t that interesting?” Renfri supposes that the ass kicking she gave the Witcher earlier wasn’t enough to make him back off. She should have killed him, but something about the look on his face--scared, but also resigned--made her spare him. She kills bad people, not men who devote their lives to keeping innocents safe.

Next time, she won’t be so merciful.

“Tell me about him,” Renfri says. “Where do I find the Witcher’s reporter?”

***

Geralt is having a bad day. He’s tired, sore, and still furious about getting his ass kicked the night before. He missed his train this morning and was late to work. The breakroom coffee is worse than usual. Lambert is being a dick. Foltest wants him to rewrite the story he turned in the night before. Everything is shit and Geralt misses the days where he skulked on the edges of society and barely had any human contact.

And this is the last fucking things he needs.

“Three days suspension?” he demands as he and Ciri ride the elevator up to his office.

Ciri leans against the wall, arms crossed over her chest. “They deserved it.”

“You got into a fight at school, Ciri! I don’t care if they deserved it or not. What happened to keeping a low profile?”

“They were being assholes to Dara,” Ciri growls.

“Who the fu--who is Dara?”

“My friend.” Her cheeks turn a bit pink. “He’s half-elf. They kept calling him ‘pointy’ and flicking his ears.”

“They were being childish jackasses, so you broke one of their noses?”

“I would have broken more than that, if Mrs. Warner hadn’t gotten in the way.”

Geralt closes his eyes.

“Gran always said it was our job to protect people who can’t protect themselves,” Ciri says primly.

Geralt’s eyes snap open. “From death or injury, Ciri, not ear flicking.”

The elevator doors slide open and they step out into the Press’s office. Geralt watches Ciri look around, taking in the rows of cubicles. “Well, this looks boring,” she says.

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you got sent home from school.”

“They deserved it!”

“You keep saying that. I still don’t care.” Geralt leads her to the break room. “Here. Sit, and don’t get into any trouble. Yennefer is with a client right now, but she’ll be around to pick you up in about an hour.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m at work, Ciri. I have an article to work on.”

“Ugh, fine.” Ciri starts to take out her phone, but Geralt snatches it out of her hands. Taking away phone privileges is something parents do, right? He feels like Foltest has mentioned taking away his daughter’s phone.

“No phone for a week,” Geralt says.

Ciri’s mouth drops open. “Geralt!”

“Ciri. You’re grounded too. You’re not allowed anywhere but school, home, and Yennefer’s shop.”

“The only places I go are school, home, and Yennefer’s shop.”

She has a point. “No phone.”

“Fine.” Ciri flops down in one of the cheap plastic chairs. “I’ll just sit here and be bored.”

“Good. Just don’t go anywhere.”

“Where would I go? Play with the fax machine?” Ciri’s voice drips with disdain.

“Don’t. If you break it, it will come out of my paycheck.” Before she can find anything snarky to say, he stalks out of the breakroom.

***

Jaskier is on his third cup of watery coffee, but it’s done nothing to chase away the bone-deep tiredness of someone running on only two hours of sleep. His vision is blurry and his fingers are clumsy as they type. He takes a sip of coffee and winces when he finds it’s gone cold. It’s not even lunchtime yet, and he feels like he’s been here for three days.

“You look like death.” Essi leans against the doorframe of his cubicle.

Jaskier rubs his eyes. “Thanks, Ess.”

“Did you sleep?”

“I kind of forgot to.”

“Melitele, Jaskier.” She rolls her eyes. “We’re not in college anymore. Your body can’t handle a total lack of sleep.”

“You calling me old?”

“I’m calling you an idiot,” Essi says. “And old.”

“This is why we’re friends. The constant boosts to my ego.”

She smirks. “So, Shani has tomorrow night off and we were thinking of going out. You want to come?”

“You want me to come along on your romantic evening with your girlfriend?”

“She hasn’t seen you in months and she misses you. Plus, when’s the last time the three of us went out? There’s a new club on Cherry Street we were thinking about checking out.”

“Clubbing?” Jaskier arches an eyebrow. “I think I may be getting a bit old for that. I may just play a round of pinochle and research affordable grave plots.”

“Come on.” Essi prods him in the arm. “Getting out will be good for you. You’re not going to get over Geralt, sitting in your sad apartment and researching serial killers.”

“That’s exactly how I was planning on getting over Geralt.”

“And how’s that working for you?”

“Ugh, fine,” Jaskier says, remembering the days not so long ago when he was always the one dragging Essi and Shani out to clubs and bars. He used to be fun. What the fuck happened? “I’ll come with you, but only because you two might need a bodyguard.”

Essi snorts. “You think we need a bodyguard? Should I invite Valdo along, then?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

She ruffles his hair. “You need more coffee, Jask. You really do look like death.”

Before he can come up with a snippy reply, she’s gone. He pushes himself to his feet, wincing slightly as his tired body protests the unwanted movement. He expects to find the breakroom empty this time of day, but instead there’s a teenage girl with a long silver blond braid standing in front of the vending machine, glaring at it as if it’s single handedly murdered all her friends. She holds a bag of rice cakes in her hand and Jaskier immediately diagnoses the issue.

“Let me guess, you were going for the cheese puffs,” he says. “You need to put in the number for the thing two slots to the left of the snack you actually want. There used to be a sign, but someone must have taken it down.”

She looks up at him, incredulous. “What’s the point of a vending machine that doesn’t give you what you want?”

“Trust me, I have no idea.” Jaskier slides a dollar into the machine and retrieves a bag of cheese puffs, handing them to her, before getting himself a bag of salt and vinegar chips. “Some of our older writers are weirdly fond of this thing, like having a vending machine that’s constantly on the fritz adds character to the place. I ate a lot of rice cakes before I figured it out.”

“Thanks,” she mumbles, looking at the cheese puffs instead of at him. “I can’t believe you guys don’t even have a TV in here.”

Jaskier makes a sympathetic noise as he goes to get himself more coffee. The pot is empty, because someone (most likely Valdo) was poorly raised, so he puts on another pot. “There used to be one, but it broke. They have one on the forty-fourth floor, though.”

“I’m not supposed to leave here,” the girl says morosely, scowling down at the table. “I’m _grounded_. It was just one stupid fight.”

The girl doesn’t have a single scratch or bruise on her. She’s small and skinny, but she must have come out on top of whatever fight she was in. “Did they deserve it?”

Her smile is almost feral. “Yes.”

“Good job, then.” Jaskier toasts her with his empty mug. It’s probably a good thing he’s going to die alone; he’d make a terrible parent.

She giggles. “He doesn’t think so. He took away my phone and grounded me for a week.”

“Parents, am I right?”

“He’s not my parent. He’s just the guardian my grandmother left me with.” The smile falls off her face and her shoulders sag.

Jaskier is sure there’s a tragic story there, but he doesn’t press. “Guardians can be as touchy as parents about stuff like that.”

“I don’t know why,” she grumbles. “It’s not like he wants me around.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“It is. He’s never home and when he is, he doesn’t want to talk to me. I don’t think he even knew that Gran had named him guardian until after she died. I’d never even met him before the funeral. He’s not even related to us; he’s just a family friend.”

Something about the way she’s talking, quick and quiet, makes Jaskier think she doesn’t get to talk about this a lot. “How long have you lived with your guardian?”

“Six months.”

He winces. Six months is long enough for this guardian of hers to have figured out that his charge is clearly miserable. “Have you tried talking to him?”

“There’s no point. Geralt doesn’t do conversation.”

Jaskier is pouring himself a cup of coffee as she speaks. At Geralt’s name, his arm jerks and coffee spills all over the counter. He scrambles to grab some paper towels and clean it up. “Geralt? Geralt Rivia is your guardian?”

What he wants to ask is, when the fuck did Geralt find the time to adopt a child? What close friend of his left him her grandchild? As far as Jaskier knew, Geralt didn’t have any close friends besides Yennefer. Jaskier and Geralt broke up six months ago. Was this already in motion when they were still together? Was Geralt just going to show up one day with a teenage girl and hope Jaskier would be okay with it? Did Jaskier even know the man he dated for two years?

Jaskier is starting to think that the answer to that last question is a resounding _no_.

“You know him?” the girl asks. “Well, yeah, I guess you work together.”

“Yes, we work together.” Jaskier turns away from her as he adds creamer to his coffee, hoping she won’t sense the sudden tension. It’s not her fault that Geralt broke his heart.

“I’m pretty sure he hates me,” she says sadly.

“No, he doesn’t.” Jaskier goes to sit across from her. He has a lot of issues with Geralt, but he knows that Geralt would never hate an innocent kid left to his care. “Look, Geralt is really bad with feelings. Especially with expressing them. He doesn’t do touchy-feely conversations. If you’re unhappy, you just need to tell him flat out. He’s going to have no idea otherwise. But once you tell him, I know he’ll do whatever he can to fix it.”

She looks like she’s about to say something, but an all-too-familiar voice says from the doorway, “A fight at school? Ciri, honestly, what were you—” Yennefer catches sight of Jaskier and the look of shock on her face would be comical, if Jaskier weren’t pretty sure that he’s wearing the same expression. “Jaskier?”

Ciri’s head whips around. “You’re Jaskier? Geralt’s Jaskier?”

 _”Not anymore,”_ Jaskier wants to tell her, but instead he says, “That’s me. Geralt’s coworker, Jaskier.” He wonders what Geralt and Yennefer have said about him. That he’s pathetic. That he was just a speed bump in their decades-long epic romance. That it took Geralt coming home drenched in Yennefer’s perfume for Jaskier to realize there was still something between them, when it should have been obvious all along.

“It’s good to see you.” Yennefer looks unsettled, which is nice. This is the first time Jaskier has clapped eyes on her since he found out she was sleeping with his boyfriend. The last time they saw each other, she had Geralt and Jaskier over for dinner. They made meat pies and Jaskier and Yennefer danced around the kitchen while Geralt watched, smiling. Later that night, Jaskier woke up and Geralt was gone. He thought Geralt was just on another one of his late-night walks. Now, he knows Geralt probably went back to Yenn’s place.

Gods, Jaskier hates both of them. He wants to unload on Yennefer right here and let all the rage and hurt that’s been building up for the last six months out. He wants to ask her why. Why even pretend to be his friend? Why lie to him? Why hurt him in the worst way she could have hurt him? But Ciri is right there and the poor kid seems to have enough going on right now without adults trying to unpack all their bullshit right in front of her.

“You too, Yenn,” Jaskier says flatly. He doesn’t even try to sound genuine.

“How have you been?”

He shoots her an incredulous look, because how does she think he’s been? “Great. Everything has been great.”

She nods. “Come on, Ciri. I have another appointment in twenty minutes. Let’s get you back to the shop.”

Ciri grumbles, but starts to follow Yennefer.

“Hey, Ciri?” Jaskier calls after them.

She turns, eyes bright.

He forces a smile. “Say hi to Roach for me.”

“You should come visit her,” Ciri says. “Geralt says she misses you.”

At least someone does. “Maybe one of these days. Bye, Ciri.”

“Bye, Jaskier.”

Jaskier waits until Yennefer and Ciri are out of sight, then he heads through the sea of cubicles. A couple of people call out to him and he smiles and greets them, but doesn’t stop to chat. No, he’s on a mission. He doesn’t stop until he’s at Geralt’s cubicle. Geralt’s desk has always been frighteningly neat: just a computer, a notebook, a coffee mug full of pens, a framed picture of Roach, and a nameplate reading _Geralt O. Rivia._ There used to be a picture of Jaskier with Roach playing in the snow, but that’s gone. The man himself is bent over his computer, back turned to Jaskier. He looks absurdly large in his tiny swivel chair and Jaskier feels a rush of affection for him. Fuck, no. He’s not supposed to get all soft for the man who broke his heart.

“I just met your ward,” he says by way of greeting.

Geralt turns around quickly, golden eyes going wide. “Jaskier?”

“No, I’m pretty sure her name was Ciri.” Gods, it’s a bad joke. Definitely in his bottom ten. Who is this person Jaskier has become, this awkward idiot who wants nothing more than for his ex-boyfriend to smile and laugh at his jokes? “Yennefer came and got her. I’m glad you two crazy kids worked things out.”

Geralt’s jaw tenses. “Yennefer and I aren’t together.”

“So she’s just helping you raise your kid platonically?” Jaskier closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He’s not here to suss out Geralt’s relationship status; that shouldn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t. “Ciri said some things I think you should know about.”

“Like what?”

“Well, she’s pretty unhappy, for one.”

“I took away her phone.”

“That’s not why she’s unhappy.” Jaskier can’t bring himself to look at Geralt’s stupid, beautiful face, so he looks at the photo of Roach instead. That doesn’t help. He misses that dog like crazy. “She thinks that you don’t like her, that you never wanted her, and that you don’t want her around.”

Geralt shakes his head. “That’s not true.”

“Have you tried telling her that?” Jaskier asks.

“She’s sixteen,” Geralt says. “Sixteen year olds can be… dramatic.”

“She’s not being dramatic, Geralt. She’s hurting. Have you thought about putting that kid in therapy? I have some names I could send you.” And fuck, here Jaskier is, falling back into old patterns. Trying to make Geralt’s life easier. Trying to fix him.

“That’s not a good option for Ciri.” Geralt turns back to his computer. “Thank you for letting me know, Jaskier. I’ll take care of it.”

It’s a dismissal, but Jaskier doesn’t move. “When did you adopt her? Before or after…”

He trails off, but Geralt seems to interpret the unspoken end of his sentence. “Not long after you left.”

Jaskier bristles a bit at the phrasing. Like Jaskier just got a whim one morning to move out. Like he breezed out the door, instead of limping away with his tail between his legs. His next question comes out more accusatory than he intends. “And who was her grandmother? You never mentioned a friend like that.”

Geralt keeps his back turned to Jaskier. “She was an old friend of Vesemir’s.”

“Ah, of course.” Jaskier laughs. “The emotionally distant foster father I was never allowed to meet.”

“I told you, Jaskier, you meeting Vesemir would have been a bad idea. And do you really want to do this here? Right now?”

Jaskier becomes aware of the fact that there’s no conversation going on in any of the surrounding cubicles. Not even the sounds of typing. Shit, everyone is listening to them. He lowers his voice. “Sorry, I… I just wanted you to know what Ciri said.”

Geralt takes his glasses off and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ciri lost her parents when she was young and she just lost the grandparents who raised her. She’s angry and she’s hurting. I don’t know how to help her. I’m doing my best, but my best is shit.”

And just like that, all the fight melts out of Jaskier. He perches his hips on the edge of Geralt’s desk and looks down at Geralt. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“It is. You know how I am, Jask. I’m not good with…” Geralt waves his hand vaguely, as if to encompass the whole of human existence.

Jaskier fights back a smile. “I think you might be better than you give yourself credit for.”

“How do you figure?”

“You...have your moments.” Jaskier isn’t going to sit here and list them. He’s not going to talk about all the times he fell asleep at his desk or on the couch and woke up tucked into bed next to Geralt. The fridge full of Jaskier’s favorite foods, even before Jaskier moved in. The silent, but comforting presence next to Jaskier after a long day at the office. Geralt was never great about anticipating unspoken needs, but once he realized that Jaskier wanted something, he always made sure he had it.

“Just try talking to her,” Jaskier says. “Talking is a lot better than stewing in silence and hoping the other person will read your mind.”

“Hm.”

One syllable shouldn’t have the power to make Jaskier’s chest ache, but he’s weak. He pushes himself up off the desk. “Well, I just wanted you to know about Ciri. You look busy. Take care, Geralt.”

“Thank you,” Geralt says.

“No problem. Ciri seems like a good kid.”

“I’m glad you two met. I knew you’d get along.”

Jaskier swallows back the lump in his throat. “Well, glad I can help.”

“I’m sorry.”

Jaskier pauses on his way out of the cubicle. He wants to turn to look at Geralt, but he knows that’s a terrible idea. He doesn’t want to see the expression on Geralt’s face. So instead, all he says is, “I know,” before he walks away.

***

“I can’t believe he adopted a kid.” Jaskier has to shout to be heard over the music. “A kid! Like, he’s raising her. Geralt is raising a kid.” He looks between Essi and Shani. “Are you two listening to me?”

“Is he still talking about Geralt?” Essi asks Shani.

“Yes, he is.” Shani rolls her eyes and takes a long sip of her gin and tonic. “He hasn’t stopped talking about Geralt.”

“ _He_ is right here,” Jaskier snaps.

“ _He_ needs to stop whining about his ex and have a good time,” Shani snipes back. She’s cut her red hair into a pixie cut since the last time Jaskier saw her. He doesn’t see her often; Shani is in her last year in medical school and spends most of her nights working in the ER at Order of Melitele Hospital.

“I’m sorry that I’m reeling from the information that my ex adopted a kid and seems to be raising her with his other ex.”

“And it sounds like he’s doing a shitty job,” Essi grumbles.

“He’s doing his best.”

Essi puts down her drink hard. “Oh, no, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Every time Geralt would fuck something up, he would always show you his soft underbelly and you’d forgive everything,” Shani says.

“There was nothing soft about his underbelly.” Jaskier never figured out how a man who worked at a desk eight hours a day and whose gym going was regular, but not excessive, managed to have eight pack abs, but he sure wasn’t complaining about the results.

Essi rolls her eyes. “Stop drooling over your ex’s abs.”

“I am not drooling!”

“So he’s raising a kid and has no idea what he’s doing. That doesn’t undo what he did to you.”

Jaskier feels heat rise to his face. “I know. I don’t forgive him. I just...I hope he’s okay.”

“He’s fine. And if he isn’t, that’s not your problem.” Shani climbs to her feet. “Come on, we’re dancing.”

“I’m not done with my drink.” Jaskier looks down at his vodka cranberry with a frown.

“I’ll buy you another one.” She grabs Essi with one hand and Jaskier with another. “Come on, dancing now. You can be sad about Geralt tomorrow. Or even better, you can find someone cute tonight and never think about him again.”

Jaskier lets Shani and Essi drag him onto the dance floor. For a while, he lets himself get lost in dancing. The music is loud, the lights are dim, and there are bodies crushed close to him on all sides. It’s easy to forget about Geralt for a while as he dances and makes eyes at attractive strangers and lets Shani press a couple more drinks into his hands. For the first time in months, Jaskier almost feels like himself again.

His thoughts are getting pleasantly fuzzy from the vodka when a girl starts to dance with him. The lighting is too dim for him to make out clear details, but he likes what he sees: a full mouth, high cheekbones, whiskey brown eyes. She tells him her name, but her words are lost in the thrum of the music and Jaskier doesn’t ask her to repeat herself. They dance for a while, their bodies moving closer and closer together. Jaskier knows where this is going, even before she leans in close and whispers in his ear, “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

Jaskier glances over his shoulder at Essi and Shani, who are watching them. Shani gives him a thumbs up. “Sure,” he tells the girl, but she’s already taken his hand and is leading him towards the door.

The cold night air hitting him in the face provides a jolt of sobriety. Jaskier glances down at the woman, whose face is turned away from him as she leads him away from the club. She’s not dressed for clubbing in black jeans, a hoodie, and sensible boots.

“My apartment is nearby,” he tells her.

She turns her head just enough that he can see the smile curling her lips. “So is mine.”

“Great, what street?”

Instead of answering, she pushes him up against the wall. It’s surprising, but not unpleasant, and Jaskier lets it happen. Her mouth hovers close to his, lips not quite touching, but close enough that he could close the gap easily. He’s about to, when a cloth covers his nose and mouth and he inhales the all-too familiar scent of chloroform.

For the first time, he looks the woman full in the face and recognizes the curving smile and the amused glint in her eyes.

“No hard feelings, Jaskier,” the Shrike tells him. “You’re cute, but you’re really not my type.”

All Jaskier has time to think is _fuck, not again_ before darkness crowds the edge of his vision and he slips into unconsciousness.

***

The night Jaskier was captured by the Ghoul is a blur of fear in his memories. The potent mix of drugs the Ghoul dosed him with left him unable to move or speak, but left his mind perfectly sharp. He knows that he was aware of everything that was going on at the time, but mercifully, his recollections are fuzzy. The night comes back to him in snatches: the cold press of the table against his bare shoulder blades, the scalpel slicing into his jaw, the Ghoul’s low voice in his ear. His vain attempts to say something, anything to save his own life and the weak croaking noises that were all he could utter.

But his sharpest memory of the night was the moment that the Witcher appeared in the doorway and he knew with complete certainty that he would be okay. Even when the Ghoul held a blade to his throat and threatened to kill him, Jaskier knew that the Witcher wouldn’t let him die. He can’t remember the actual fight between the Witcher and the Ghoul, which has never seemed fair, but he remembers the Witcher carrying him outside, with Jaskier cradled against his chest.

When Jaskier woke up the next afternoon in a hospital bed, Geralt and Essi were sitting at his bedside. Essi was dozing, her head lolled against Geralt’s shoulder, but Geralt was wide awake. When he saw Jaskier was awake, he didn’t move, not wanting to disturb Essi, but the look of relief on his face warmed Jaskier all the way down to his toes. It was that moment that he knew that his little crush on his coworker was way more than a crush. He knew he was in love with this quiet, awkward man with his khakis, the glasses that constantly slipped down his nose, and his rare smiles.

With the certainty that he knew the Witcher wouldn’t let him get hurt, he knew that Geralt would never hurt him.

Only one of those things turned out to be true.

***

When Jaskier wakes up, his head is killing him and he’s tied to a chair in a dimly lit basement that smells like mildew, which seems about right. Kidnappers always seem to take him to dimly lit basements that smell like mildew. He wriggles around in the chair, trying to feel for his phone in his pocket with his elbow. If he can dislodge it enough, maybe he can use voice command to send Mousesack a text. This would be a good time to have the Witcher’s phone number, he thinks bitterly. If he’s not about to disappear forever, he’ll have to have another chat with Mousesack.

“Looking for this?” He looks up to see the Shrike leaning against the wall, holding his cell phone. “Don’t worry, I texted your friend Essi to tell her that you’re fine and back at my place, having the best sex of your life.”

Jaskier tries for a wry smile. “Think pretty highly of yourself, don’t you?”

To his surprise, the Shrike grins and continues scrolling through his phone. “How do you get in contact with the Witcher? The only texts I see are from Essi and someone named Mousesack. And a text from your mom two months ago that you never opened. Family problems, huh?”

Jaskier blinks at her. “I don’t get in contact with the Witcher. He just kind of shows up whenever I’m in trouble.” He glances towards the door, half-expecting to find the Witcher standing there, but the doorway is empty. Now would be a great time for the Witcher to do one of his unannounced drop ins.

“I made sure we weren’t followed,” the Shrike says.

“Where are we?” Jaskier looks around. The basement is filled with boxes and empty crates, but no signs that helpfully tell him what street he’s on or how far he is from his apartment.

“The basement of an old pizza place. It got shut down a couple of months ago after it caused not one, but two outbreaks of norovirus.”

That doesn’t narrow it down much in Novigrad. Jaskier’s searching eyes find a sharpened pike leaned up against the wall. His heart stutters with terror and his voice comes out shakier than he would like. “What do you want from me?”

The Shrike follows his gaze. “Not that. I know a predator when I see one, and you have gazelle written all over you.”

“Then why am I here?” He can feel the sharp edge of panic making itself known. Being tied up reminds him of being paralyzed and helpless while the Ghoul tried to decide where to cut him first. It reminds him of kneeling on his closet floor, waiting for a bullet to enter his skull.

The Shrike’s pose is the picture of nonchalance, but he can see that every muscle in her body is tense as she studies him with narrowed eyes. “You were calling around about me. Which is strange, since as far as I can tell, you mostly write about music.”

“I’m writing a story about Marcus Weiss’s death. Care to comment?”

“Did the Witcher ask you to do that?”

“The Witcher doesn’t care what I write.”

She tilts her head to the side. “But you write about him sometimes.”

“Only when he stops me from falling out of a window or saves me from a serial killer.”

“Does he do that often?”

“Depends on who you ask. I think he’s saved my life a normal amount, but he seems to think it’s excessive.” He twists his wrists, trying to find a weak point in the ropes binding him to the chair.

The Shrike notices. “If you keep that up, you’re going to be covered in bruises tomorrow.”

“We can’t have that.” Jaskier takes a deep breath. “Please, untie me.”

“So you can run to your Witcher? I don’t think so.”

“He’s not my Witcher.” Unfortunately. “And I won’t run to him. I’m not very athletic. Running isn’t a strong point. If it was, I wouldn’t need rescuing so often.”

She gives him an appraising once-over. “You don’t look unathletic to me.”

If it were anyone else saying it, Jaskier would preen. As it is, he decides to preen later. “I promise, I won’t run. I just really hate being tied up.”

_A fist entwining in his hair and jerking his head back so he had no choice but to look into the face of the helmeted man who’d just held a gun on him. “Next time I open this door, you’re going to talk, or I’m going to kill you.”_

He shudders.

The Shrike studies his face for a moment, then grabs the pike. Jaskier recoils as she strides towards him, but she only uses the pike to slice through the ropes around his wrists.

“I’m leaving the ones on your ankles,” she tells him. “If you try to untie them, you won’t finish undoing the first knot before your intestines are in your lap.”

Jaskier rubs his wrists. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” The Shrike circles around behind him. Her steps are so light that he can’t hear them on the concrete floor. “Did the Witcher ask you to research me?”

“No.” Jaskier shakes his head. “Are you kidding? He would be pissed if he knew. Look, if your plan is to hold me hostage and, I don’t know, tie me to the train tracks, it won’t work. I’m pretty sure that I’m a pain in the Witcher’s ass, and not in a good way.”

“Tie you to the train tracks?”

“It’s one of the few ways someone hasn’t tried to kill me.”

“I already told you, I’m not going to kill you.” She circles around in front of him again, twirling her pike in her hands like a baton. “And I’m not planning on holding you hostage either. You want to write a story about Marcus Weiss?”

Her eyes are ordinary enough, brown and almond-shaped. But her gaze is still piercing enough to draw the truth out of him. “Marcus Weiss was a known asshole and the world is better off without him. You’re a much more interesting story.”

“I read your articles about the Ghoul,” she says softly. “You know what I thought was interesting? Even after he almost killed you, you wrote about him like he was a human being failed by the mental health system and not a monster. You treated him with compassion that many people would say a cannibalistic serial killer doesn’t deserve.”

“He is a human. A very, very sick human.” Jaskier curls his fingers around the arms of the chair. “When he was in high school, he tried telling a teacher about his… cravings. Instead of getting the therapy he desperately needed, he got kicked out of school for being a danger to other students. Which he probably was, but you have to wonder what would have happened if he had gotten the help he needed. Maybe with the right meds, he never would have hurt anyone.”

“Or maybe his first victim would have been a fellow classmate instead of that poor girl he found at a gas station,” the Shrike says.

“Maybe.” Jaskier shrugs. “I guess we’ll never know.”

She pulls up a chair and sits in front of him. To his relief, she lets the pike fall to the ground. “If you want a story, I can give you a story.”

He can’t tell if it’s a promise or a threat. “About what?”

“About me,” the Shrike says. “My name is Renfri Creyden and I’m the product of an experiment conducted by Black Sun Industries called Project Lilit.”

Jaskier takes a beat to absorb that. “Yeah, you’re going to need to give me my phone back now. I have to take notes.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all are taking care of yourselves, staying home, and staying healthy! I'm on day four of self-quarantine and already getting pretty stir crazy, which doesn't bode well for the next few weeks. So you guys may be getting another chapter this week, depending on how things go!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Geralt finds out about Jaskier’s chat with Renfri, he loses his temper and makes some rash decisions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Discussion of child abuse and sexual assault. If you’d rather skip it, you can stop reading at the line “How did you escape?” and start again at the line, “So you killed them.” All you'll miss is Renfri's version of the events Stregobor discussed with Geralt in Chapter 3.

“So, you’re telling me that Stregobor and Black Sun Industries were experimenting on little kids for over a decade and no one knew?” Jaskier has mostly forgotten about the ropes around his ankles and the sharpened pike on the ground at Renfri’s feet. His attention is focused on the woman in front of him.

Renfri straddles the back of her chair, chin resting on her fists. “Oh, people knew. Stregobor has friends everywhere. The mayor’s office, the city council, the police department. He donates to all the right charities, goes to the right cocktail parties. He could have dissected a girl in front of city hall, and maybe he would have gotten a fine.”

“But where were they getting these kids? Shouldn’t parents have been complaining about their children getting mutated?”

“Most of us were orphans. Wards of the state. Or kids like me, whose mother was dead, dad didn’t give a fuck, and stepmother couldn’t wait to take a payout to get rid of me. You know, I never knew what she told my dad, or if he even noticed.”

Jaskier’s insides twist with sympathy. He doesn’t have the best relationship with his parents, but he can’t imagine them selling him to become a science experiment. “But why? If he wanted to create sorcerers, that’s what places like Aretuza are for.”

“Those places teach people who already have magical powers how to use them,” Renfri says. “Stregobor took kids with no magical talents and tried to force magic into us. He didn’t want sorcerers. He wanted soldiers. Instead, he got dozens of dead kids.”

“How did you escape?”

She sits back abruptly. “I never developed any magical powers, despite Stregobor’s best efforts. Instead, I became immune to magic. Stregobor became obsessed with getting me to be able to use magic. A sorcerer immune to other sorcerers’ spells? I would have been unstoppable. So he began to introduce me into stressful situations in hopes that I would snap. Sleep deprivation, starvation, extreme cold and heat, electric shocks. But nothing worked. And then one of his doctors raped me.”

Jaskier’s throat constricts with horror. “Gods.”

She shrugs, though the tightness around her eyes belies the casualness of the gesture. “I’m sure Stregobor would tell you that he had no idea it was going to happen, that he had no control over what the doctor did, but he’s full of shit. He knew everything that was happening in that lab. It was just another test, another way to trigger powers that I don’t have. When he finally realized that I was never going to be the soldier he wanted, he tried to get rid of me. The doctor came after me with a scalpel one night, but I managed to overpower him. I cut that piece of shit to ribbons and then I made my way through the lab and made them all pay.”

“So you killed them.”

She tilts her head to the side. “Does that bother you?”

“Not shedding many tears over child murderers here.”

“After that, I did what I had to do to survive,” Renfri says. “I was a fourteen year old girl on my own, so it wasn’t easy. There were a lot of rough years, but I made it work. And then one day, I was in Blaviken and I caught sight of one of Stregobor’s friends. His name was Irion. Stregobor used to bring him by the labs and make the other girls perform minor magic tricks for him, like pretty little dancing monkeys. He would laugh and laugh like we weren’t lab rats. I hated him almost as much as I hated Stregobor, so I followed him and found that he was keeping a bunch of women under love spells. So I killed him. And that was how I became the Shrike.”

“And now you’re in Novigrad,” Jaskier says.

She bares her teeth into a smile. “Stregobor and I have unfinished business.”

“Unfinished business that involves a pike through his heart?”

“I don’t just want Stregobor dead. I want him destroyed. I want his reputation in tatters. And that’s why you’re here, Jaskier. You’re going to let the world know everything I just told you. Every single terrible detail.” She rises to her feet. “Wait five minutes before you untie yourself and leave.”

“Wait,” Jaskier says, surprised by the abrupt end of their conversation. “How do I get in contact with you?”

“I’ll get in contact with you.”

“No more chloroform, please.”

“That was a one time thing.” She smiles then, a real smile. Not a smirk or gritted teeth disguised as a grin. “It was nice meeting you, Jaskier.”

“You too.” And despite the kidnapping and being tied to a chair, Jaskier actually means it.

He only waits two minutes before he unties himself and follows her out of the closed up pizza parlor, but Renfri is already long gone.

***

“That,” Valdo Marx says, practically frothing at the mouth in a way that warms Jaskier’s soul in a way nothing else can. “Is the biggest crock of nonsense this newspaper has ever seen.”

Jaskier shoots him a brilliant smile. There’s nothing to chase away the Monday morning blues like pissing Valdo off. “No more nonsense than that drunken love song you sang for the Cou--for Charlotte last Beltane.”

Valdo’s expression slackens in horror and shame at the memory.

“Gentlemen, there’s no need for all this sniping.” Charlotte de Stael leans back behind her sleek, shiny desk, chin resting on one perfectly manicured hand. Statuesque and dark haired, she has a pair of expressive brown eyes, expanses of creamy skin, and a surprisingly sweet face. She looks kind and almost motherly, not like the type of person to have sent her last three personal assistants to the hospital with panic attacks. Five years ago, Jaskier fell for her act hook, line, and sinker, but he likes to think he’s smarter now than he was when he was twenty-one and driven purely by horniness. Though given how things ended with Geralt, maybe not.

“Julian.” She says his given name in a low, intimate way. She’s one of the few people who calls him Julian instead of Jaskier. When they were together, he thought it was cute. “I don’t understand how you end up in these situations.”

“I ask myself that constantly,” Jaskier says.

Valdo snorts. “He must seek them out. First the Ghoul, then the Witcher, now the Shrike. All stories for the crime beat.”

“Renfri,” Jaskier snaps. “Her name is Renfri Creyden, which none of the geniuses on the crime beat figured out.”

“You didn’t figure anything out! You got tied to a chair and she told you everything. You didn’t do a bit of journalistic leg work.”

“Well, Valdo, you were hoping that the Shrike would have better luck than the Ghoul, and she did.” Pointedly, Jaskier turns to the Countess. “Look, this story is mostly written. If I can find someone in Black Sun Industries to talk to me about Project Lilit, then this could be big. Bigger than the Ghoul.”

“Please,” Valdo says. “Pankratz writes stories about talentless idiots wailing about heartbreak. This is out of his depth.”

“If you’re jealous I’ve never interviewed you, Valdo, all you had to do was say so.”

Valdo’s face purples.

“I don’t see an issue with Julian pursuing this story,” the Countess says. “As long as he continues with his normal work.”

“Of course.” Jaskier nods eagerly. “I can multitask.”

“Charlotte—” Valdo whines, but the Countess waves her hand to silence him.

“Julian’s stories about the Ghoul were a hit,” she says. “The Witcher, too. People are fascinated with this stuff. And the Shrike is the best of both worlds: the superpowers of the Witcher, and the body count of the Ghoul.”

“Exactly!” Jaskier perches on the edge of his chair, vibrating with enthusiasm. “This story has everything. Superpowers, gory murders, corporate corruption, revenge.”

Valdo mutters something under his breath. All Jaskier can hear is “entertainment.”

The Countess smiles at Jaskier and for a moment, he remembers why he was so attracted to her all those years ago. She has her moments. “What’s more entertaining than men like Marcus Weiss and Stregobor getting exactly what they deserve?”

“Thank you, Charlotte.” Jaskier shoots Valdo a smug smile.

“And keep me in the loop,” the Countess says. “I want daily updates on how this story is progressing.”

Valdo looks like he might vomit.

“Of course, ma’am.” Jaskier stands up. “Now, if you two don’t mind, I have lots of work to do.”

The Countess waves him towards the door magnanimously and Jaskier leaves, pulling the door closed behind him just as Valdo whines, “Charlotte, come on, this is—”

“Oh, shut up, Valdo,” the Countess snaps.

Whistling, Jaskier struts away.

***

Geralt is sitting at his desk, going through his emails, when he hears the rumble of Lambert’s voice, raised in indignation. Lambert’s voice is often raised in indignation, so this isn’t new. “Absolute fucking bullshit,” Lambert says. “That little prick needs to learn to stay in his lane.”

Eskel grumbles something too low for Geralt to hear.

“I don’t give a fuck if he gets himself killed,” Lambert says. “What I care about is that Jaskier fucking Pankratz has been assigned the biggest story of the year, two days after writing a story about a popstar’s new boyfriend.”

Fuck, of course it’s about Jaskier. Why is it that whenever people are yelling, it’s always about Jaskier? Geralt stands up and finds Lambert and Eskel walking by. “What happened?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

It must not work, because both Lambert and Eskel look surprised. Geralt doesn’t initiate conversations with his coworkers very often. “The Countess has assigned the Shrike story to Pankratz,” Eskel tells Geralt, much more calmly than Lambert.

Geralt has to school his expression into impassiveness. “Why?”

Eskel shrugs. “He got an interview somehow.”

Lambert snorts. “An interview? She kidnapped him and told him her whole life story. Allegedly.”

Geralt bristles at his dismissive tone. “Allegedly?”

“I mean, there’s no way that kid gets that lucky two times.”

“Lucky?” Geralt puts down his mug of coffee. “The Ghoul almost _ate_ him.”

“And he got the story of the year out of it. If any of it ever actually happened.”

“It happened,” Geralt says coldly. Like he could ever forget the strangled noises Jaskier made, unable to speak while the Ghoul hovered over him. The tears streaming down his face. The utter hopelessness in his expression, replaced by relief when he saw Geralt in the doorway.

Lambert scoffs. “There’s no way he keeps getting mixed up in all these things accidentally. In my whole career, I’ve never had one death threat. He’s had a dozen. Kid brings it on himself on purpose.”

Geralt takes a step towards him, then stops. Besides the career-ending idiocy of starting a fist fight with one of his coworkers on the job, Lambert is several inches taller than him and even broader in the shoulders. If Geralt beats Lambert in a fight, which he would, it’s going to look suspicious.

Lambert’s lips twitch. “Sorry, Rivia. I forgot about you two.”

Geralt knows that Lambert hasn't forgotten that he and Jaskier used to be a couple. No one in the office has. Eskel grimaces and shoots Geralt an apologetic look. He gives a lot of apologetic looks on Lambert’s behalf.

“Jaskier doesn’t bring these things on himself on purpose,” Geralt says softly. “He’s nosy and occasionally stupid, but he’s a good reporter. You could learn something from him, Lambert.”

Lambert’s lip curls. “He’s going to get himself killed if he doesn’t stop trying to take our jobs.”

“Get better at your job, and it won’t be so easy for him to take it.” Geralt stalks away before Lambert can reply. He’s going to go find Jaskier at his cubicle and ask him what the hell he’s thinking, but he doesn’t make it that far. He finds Jaskier walking out of the breakroom, looking as pleased as if someone just dropped a million crowns in his lap. Geralt grabs him by the arm, causing him to yelp and spill coffee down the front of his shirt, and drags him into an empty conference room. He slams the door behind them and turns to face Jaskier.

“Yeah, no.” Jaskier tries to move past Geralt, but Geralt holds out an arm to block him. Jaskier glowers up at him. “This was sexy the last time you did this, but we were dating then. I’m not into ex sex, especially not four days after finding out that you’re raising a kid with—”

“What the hell are you thinking?” Geralt growls, though there’s not much heat in it, because now he’s thinking of the last time he pulled Jaskier into an empty conference room and he’s distracted by the memory of Jaskier’s hips pressed up against the table and his head thrown back while Geralt took his cock in his mouth.

Fuck. Geralt needs to focus.

“Well, right now, I’m thinking about the fact that you just made me spill my coffee.” Jaskier pokes him in the chest. “And that you’re acting like an ass, though that’s not unusual.”

Geralt shakes himself out of his memories before he does something stupid, like kiss Jaskier. That isn’t what he dragged Jaskier in here for. “The Shrike, Jaskier, really?”

Jaskier’s jaw drops. “How did you know about that?”

“Heard it through the grapevine. She kidnapped you?”

“Kidnapping is a strong word. I mean, she charmed me into leaving a club with her, drugged me, and tied me up in a basement. Okay, maybe she kidnapped me.”

“Are you okay?”

For an instant, Jaskier’s expression softens. “I’m fine.”

“You were kidnapped. That isn’t fine.” Jaskier looks uninjured. There aren’t any obvious wounds, besides some bruises on his wrists.

“She didn’t want to hurt me. I’m not her type, I guess.”

“Of course you’re not.” The thought of Jaskier being a danger to anyone but himself is laughable. Gently, Geralt takes Jaskier’s wrist in his hand and lifts it to examine it. The skin of the bony parts of his wrists is rubbed raw. “What happened?”

“Oh, that was my fault.” Jaskier laughs nervously. “She tied me up and I tried to struggle. I don’t like being tied up.”

Geralt lets Jaskier’s wrist drop. “None of this was your fault. What did she want with you?”

“Well, at first she thought I was working for the Witcher,” Jaskier says, shining with the enthusiasm of someone recounting an incredible first date, not a kidnapping. Geralt would be jealous, if not for the fact that that’s how Jaskier always looks when he’s got his hands on a story that he knows is going to be good.

“Why would she think that?” Geralt asks flatly. Fuck, if Jaskier got mixed up in all of this because of him...

“I guess because I’ve written about him. When she found out I was researching her, she assumed I was doing it for him.”

“And why were you researching her?”

“I was going to write a story about Marcus Weiss!”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “Were you really?”

“I mean, yes.” Jaskier’s cheeks redden. “He was a big deal in the music industry, even if he was an asshole. And if that story was going to end up focusing more on the vigilante who killed him, instead of Weiss himself… Well, I can’t help where the facts take me.”

“The facts,” Geralt says. “Yes, it’s the facts that keep getting you involved with this stuff.”

Jaskier shrugs and raises his hands in a “what can you do?” gesture. “But she told me everything, Geralt. Black Sun Industries was experimenting on kids. It was called Project Lilit and they were trying to make some kind of magical supersoldier, but it went wrong and Renfri was the only one left. Stregobor let one of his doctors force himself on her when she was only fourteen, but she managed to escape and now she’s trying to get her revenge on the type of men who hurt her.”

Something inside of Geralt goes still. If Jaskier knows what Project Lilit is and plans to write about it, Stregobor won’t bother having him evicted from his apartment. The sorcerer will want to silence Jaskier permanently. If a car pulls up beside Jaskier while he’s walking home, it won’t be sweet, chatty Marilka asking him to get in. Whether intentionally or through a lack of consideration. Renfri has put Jaskier in more danger than he’ll ever realize.

“Why would she tell you all that?” Geralt asks.

“Because she wants someone to expose Stregobor for the monster he is.”

“And she wants it to be you?”

“I mean, it has to be someone,” Jaskier says. “She said she was impressed by the way I wrote about the Ghoul like he was a human being and not a monster, even after what he tried to do to me.”

“Hm.” Geralt remembers reading the story Jaskier wrote after his encounter with the Ghoul and wanting to throw something. Not because it was bad; it was excellent--compelling, nuanced, and detailed. But because Geralt had to wonder if Jaskier valued his life so little that he could have sympathy for the person who had almost taken it in the most brutal way imaginable.

“She’s terrifying,” Jaskier says. “Completely terrifying, and probably a little unhinged. But I get why she’s done the things she’s done, you know? No one saved her when she needed saving. No one punished the people who hurt her. So she’s doing for other women what she wishes someone had done for her.”

“And she told you all that?”

“Well, not exactly.” Jaskier shrugs. “But it was easy to read between the lines.”

“Jaskier, she’s impaling people on pikes.”

“Bad people!”

“And what if she doesn’t stop with bad people?” Geralt demands. “What if she gets a taste of it and starts killing whoever she feels like killing? Or what if she makes a mistake and kills the wrong person? I’m glad you two had a nice talk and that she didn’t stab you, but you don’t belong anywhere near this thing.”

He knows he’s made a mistake as soon as Jaskier’s breath hitches and his eyes narrow. “And where do you think I belong, Geralt?”

“Writing about what you were hired to write about! You like music, Jaskier. You like entertainment. So why—”

“Because I get tired of doing the same interviews with the same singers while their agents and their PR reps stand behind them, whispering in their ears, that’s why. And I’m not going to pass up an opportunity like this when it lands in my lap.”

“You mean, when it kidnaps you and almost impales you with a pike.”

“She was never going to impale me on the pike! I was never in any danger.”

Geralt laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Even if you think the Shrike isn’t dangerous, what about Stregobor? Do you think the CEO of the largest magic distributor on the Continent is going to let you publish a story about him without a fight? You’ll be lucky if all he does is try and sue you for defamation.”

Jaskier snorts. “What, you think he’s going to send a hitman after me or something?”

“Do you really think that a man who experiments on children will hesitate to take out one inconvenient journalist?”

Jaskier pales a bit at that and finally, Geralt thinks he may be getting through to him. “What does it matter to you, Geralt?” Jaskier asks softly.

The question renders Geralt speechless for a moment. “Of course it matters to me that you’re safe.”

“Wow, thanks, Geralt. That’s touching. Would have meant a lot more six months ago.”

Geralt grits his teeth. “We’re not talking about six months ago, Jaskier. We’re talking about now and how you seem willing to get yourself killed just for a damn story.”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“I never said—”

“I’m not taking any unnecessary risks here. I’m doing my job. And I’m sorry if that’s a problem for you. Actually, I’m not sorry. You forfeited your right to have opinions on what I do when you fucked your ex.”

This conversation is quickly spinning out of Geralt’s control, if it was ever in his control in the first place. “Jaskier—”

“No.” Jaskier takes a step towards him, close enough that Geralt can smell the spilled coffee on his shirt. “Let’s talk about six months ago. Let’s talk about the fact that I was about to die instead of telling those men where you were. And my favorite fucking part is that I didn’t actually even know where you were. If they’d shot me for not telling them that you were at the office, I would have died for absolutely fucking nothing, because you were with Yennefer the entire time.”

“If I had known what would happen, I would have been with you. You know that.”

“You think that makes it better?”

“No, I don’t,” Geralt snaps. “I don’t think anything makes this better.”

“Great.” Jaskier seems to realize how close he’s standing to Geralt and takes a step back. “Glad we’re on the same page about something. Now, unless you have any other painful memories you’d like to dredge up, I’m going to get back to work.”

He pushes Geralt’s arm aside. Geralt could easily stop him, could easily make Jaskier stand there and listen to what he has to say, but the problem is that Geralt has no idea what else he can say. Nothing will make this better. Nothing will convince Jaskier to give up writing about the Shrike.

As soon as the door slams shut behind Jaskier, Geralt sags against the wall. “Fuck.”

***

Geralt stalks through the streets of Novigrad like a man possessed that night. It’s a cold, damp evening and the streets are mostly empty, which is a small blessing. He’s not interested in muggings and carjackings tonight. He only has one purpose, and he won’t rest until he finds her. He searches for hours. His first dose of potion wears off and he has to take a second dose, but he doesn’t falter.

But again, Renfri finds him. He wonders if she’s following him, or if Stregobor’s confidence that she has no magic of her own isn't entirely accurate. She finds Geralt on the rooftop of an old mill that’s been converted into apartments. He hears her before he sees her, footsteps so light that they would be silent to human ears.

“You should have left him out of this,” Geralt tells her.

Behind him, the Shrike chuckles. “What is he to you?”

“None of your concern.” Geralt turns to face her. She’s standing on the other side of the rooftop. “You’re going to get him killed. Stregobor will have him eliminated as soon as he learns that there’s a story in the works about Project Lilit.”

“Well, it’s a good thing he has you to keep him safe, isn’t it?”

Geralt tenses. “You kidnapped him.”

“Just a means to an end. He was never in any danger. Well, not from me.”

“He had bruises on his wrists.”

“Those were of his own making. He doesn’t like being tied up, apparently. Was that because of the Ghoul, or did someone else try to kill him?” Her voice dips lower, teasing. “And how did you get close enough to get a good look at his wrists, Witcher?”

Geralt clenches his jaw. “Stay away from Jaskier. This is your only warning.”

“I already told you, I’m not a threat to him. I like Jaskier. It’s funny, he’s better at hiding his feelings for you than you are at hiding your feelings for him, even with your mask.”

Geralt stalks towards her. Most people back away from him; Renfri stands her ground. “I won’t let you put him in any more danger, Shrike,” he growls.

Levelly, she meets his gaze. “I’m not the one you have to worry about hurting him. It’s Stregobor.”

“Was that your plan?” He crowds into her space. “Did you want him on Stregobor’s radar?”

“For what it’s worth, I feel bad about it now that I’ve gotten a chance to know him. I always expect journalists to be smarmier. I guess it’s not fair to judge people based on stereotypes.” Her lips curl into a faint smile. “I know that Stregobor asked you to kill me.”

“You should also know that I’m not an assassin,” Geralt grunts.

“No, but you have racked up quite the body count.”

“That was a long time ago. I grew up. Realized that it wasn’t on me to decide who got to live and who had to die.”

“How noble of you. I’ll make the decision for you then. Stregobor needs to die and you’re going to help me kill him.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because we both know that as soon as Stregobor finds out about Jaskier’s story, Jaskier is as good as dead. Stregobor dies, you and I both get what we want. I get my revenge and you get Jaskier safe.”

“I’m not a pawn for you and Stregobor to use against each other,” Geralt says. “And neither is Jaskier. You made a mistake when you got him involved.”

“I don’t want you as a pawn, Witcher. I want you as an ally. I’m not your enemy here. Do you think Project Lilit will be the last time Stregobor plays at being a god? Men like him don’t change. They don’t stop. There will be other little girls left to die in labs.”

“And you think that will stop if Stregobor dies? A lot of people work at Black Sun Industries. You can’t kill them all.”

“I can kill the ones who need to die. Everyone who knew about Project Lilit.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything. His hand finds the hilt of his sword.

“If you’re not with me, Witcher, you’re against me,” she says. “You don’t want to be against me.”

“Funny. I was about to say the same thing to you.”

He almost forgot how fast she was. She rushes towards him, her pike coming up to meet the sword that he barely has time to draw. She forces him away from the edge of the rooftop. Geralt swings his sword at her, but she twirls away from the blow. It’s an unnecessarily showy move. A taunt. Drawing his second sword, Geralt follows her. One pike shouldn’t be a match for two swords, but Renfri is quick. They trade blows, dodging and weaving. The only sounds on the rooftop are their labored breathing and the sound of metal against metal.

Finally, Geralt gains the upper hand. He crosses his swords and uses them to push Renfri back against the wall, pinning her pike against her chest. Her eyes are wild when she looks up at him.

“You’re a monster, just like me,” she says. “I would think you’d know what it’s like to be used, mutated. Don’t you want revenge for what was done to you?”

Before Geralt can reply, he feels a shooting pain in his thigh, He hasn’t even realized she has a knife until he looks down and sees it clenched in her hand, the blade slick with his blood. There’s a jagged wound in his thigh starting to ooze blood. Renfri aims the knife at his stomach and he knocks it out of her hand with one of the swords.

It’s all the opening Renfri needs to drive her pike through Geralt’s abdomen. He feels the shock of the cold steel entering his body, but there’s no pain. Uselessly, he grips the pike sticking out of his stomach.

“For what it’s worth,” Renfri says. “I didn’t want to do that.”

Geralt sways on his feet and stumbles away from her.

Renfri follows him. “I need Jaskier to help me destroy Stregobor’s reputation. I’m not going to just let Stregobor kill him.”

“You can’t stab every threat that comes along.” It’s difficult to form words. From the wheezing, wet sounds of his breathing, Geralt is certain one of his lungs have been punctured.

“I think I can.” She puts her hands on his shoulders. “Goodbye, Witcher.”

She shoves him backwards.

Geralt doesn’t realize how close he is to the edge of the rooftop until he’s falling.

***

The fight with the Ghoul was one of the easiest of Geralt’s life, once he got the scalpel away from Jaskier’s throat. The Ghoul wasn’t an imposing figure, a frail middle-aged man who used a cocktail of drugs, not his strength, to subdue his victims. It was almost anticlimactic how quickly Geralt had the serial killer incapacitated on the ground.

Geralt held Jaskier gently against his chest as he carried him out of the Ghoul’s lair. Jaskier wasn’t a small man--he was almost as tall as Geralt and surprisingly athletic for someone who consumed his weight’s worth of takeout on a daily basis--but Geralt was able to carry him easily. Jaskier’s head lolled against Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt looked down and saw Jaskier staring directly into his face. Jaskier’s lips were moving, but no sound was coming out, and it took a moment for Geralt to realize what Jaskier was trying to say.

_”Geralt.”_

Jaskier knew it was him under the mask.

He was never sure what had given his identity away, and he never got to find out. When Jaskier woke up the next day in the hospital, his memories of the night before were fuzzy at best and he seemed to have no memory of most of what had happened. For days, Geralt waited for the other shoe to drop and for Jaskier to reveal that he knew Geralt was the Witcher, but it never happened. Whatever moment of clarity Jaskier had experienced, it was gone.

Geralt could never decide if that was a blessing or a curse.

***

Geralt’s world is a haze of pain. He dislocated his shoulder and broke his leg during the fall. His lung is almost certainly punctured. From the throbbing in his head, he most likely has a concussion too. His Witcher cell phone has been shattered, either in the fight or the fall. If it weren’t for the potion still coursing through his veins, he’d have passed out from the pain by now. As it is, passing out sounds like a great idea right now.

“Fuck,” he wheezes into the cold pavement. He needs Yennefer, but she’s at his apartment with Ciri, a good five miles away. He’s not going to make it on his leg. But he can’t stay here; there’s too high of a chance of someone stumbling across him and calling the police or trying to rob or kill him.

Slowly, painfully Geralt drags himself to his feet. He can’t stop the moan of agony from escaping his lips. His body goes on autopilot, his instincts taking over for conscious thought, as he begins to walk.

***

At first, Jaskier doesn’t know what woke him up. One moment, he’s in a deep, dreamless sleep (a rarity for him these days) and the next, he’s wide awake and staring at the ceiling. Being abruptly woken up isn’t unusual in this building; the walls are thin and he overhears all manner of screaming children, lovers’ quarrels, and sexual escapades. But as soon as his eyes open, every nerve in his body seems to be standing on end.

Something is wrong.

From across the apartment, he hears the sound of his window sliding open.

Heart suddenly in his throat, Jaskier jumps to his feet and grabs his guitar. It’s not much in the way of a weapon, but it’s the best thing he has. In the pitch blackness of his apartment, he hears a groan.

“I have no money and my TV doesn’t work,” he tells the unseen intruder. “You can have my microwave, okay? Take the microwave. It will take you ten minutes to cook a chicken patty, but—”

“Jaskier.” The voice is low, gravelly, and familiar.

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispers and turns on the light. The Witcher lies crumpled on the ground by the window, a pool of blood spreading around him. There’s a pike sticking out of his stomach.

“Sorry.” The Witcher’s breathing is labored. “You were the… the closest…”

“Fuck!” Jaskier drops the guitar and rushes towards the fallen vigilante. “What happened? Shit, you need a hospital. Hold on, let me find my phone.”

“No hospitals.”

Jaskier pauses. “I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but you’ve been impaled.”

“I’m fucking aware that I’ve been impaled.” Every word sounds like a struggle. “Just need somewhere to heal.”

“You know where a great place to heal is? A hospital.”

“Just help me up.”

“This is going to hurt.” Gently, Jaskier tries to help the Witcher to his feet, but his knees buckle under the other man’s weight. They both slide to the ground. “My best friend is a doctor. I can call her.”

“No.”

“Look, I really don’t want you to die in my apartment.”

“This isn’t going to be what kills me.”

“Fantastic. Wonderful.” Wincing, Jaskier manages to get the Witcher to his feet. “You think you can make it to my bed?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier has imagined leading the Witcher to his bed many, many times. In all of his fantasies, there was significantly less blood (and less clothing.) They manage to struggle their way across the room to his bed. As he lowers the Witcher down, he’s very aware of the fact that he hasn’t washed his sheets since he moved in and they definitely smell like it. Luckily, the Witcher has more pressing concerns.

“What happened?” he asks again.

“Isn’t it obvious? I got impaled.”

“Ha, hilarious,” Jaskier deadpans.

The Witcher coughs wetly in response.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Jaskier says.

“My lung is punctured.”

“Fuck, you seriously need a hospital.”

“No, I don’t.” Those uncanny black eyes close. “I’m going to need you to pull the pike out.”

“You want me to _what_?”

“The damage will heal on its own once the pike is out and I take another dose of my potion.”

Jaskier swallows back the sick feeling in his throat. “Look, I’m not a doctor, but I’m pretty sure that pike is all that’s stopping you from bleeding to death right now.”

“If you want me to choke to death on my own blood in your bed, be my guest. You’ll need new sheets.”

“Oh, fuck. Okay.” With shaking hands, Jaskier grips the end of the pike. “You’re going to have to talk me through this.”

“You hold onto the pike and pull.”

“Thank you. So helpful. Do you want me to count down?”

“Do you need the countdown, or do you think I need it?”

Before he can lose his nerve, Jaskier tightens his grip on the pike and yanks. The pike comes free with a horrible wet noise and blood gushes from the wound. Jaskier lets out a choked little scream and the Witcher’s eyes snap open. Instead of the black eyes Jaskier was expecting, he finds himself staring into a familiar pair of yellow eyes. Jaskier is pretty sure his heart stops beating.

“ _Geralt_?”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel less bad ending on that cliffhanger since I posted two updates this week. I was going to drag out the big reveal for a few more chapters, but Geralt and Jaskier are just more fun to write when they’re together, so here we are.
> 
> Next update will be posted on Tuesday! I'm going to start working remotely in earnest next week, so we'll most likely be back to a regular posting schedule. I hope you're all taking care of yourselves.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier has questions and Geralt finally has some answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments on the last chapter! I'm sorry for leaving you with that cliffhanger. Hopefully this will be worth the wait!

Geralt is unconscious, which is infuriating. Jaskier can’t shout at an unconscious man, or demand to know what the fuck is going on. He stares down at the prone figure in his bed, mind reeling as he replays the last three years in his head. Every time he woke up in the middle of the night and found Geralt gone, out on one of his late night walks. The home invaders with mysterious motives who almost shot Jaskier. The fact that the Witcher always seemed to be close at hand when Jaskier needed him. Shit, since when is Jaskier this stupid?

But he can’t take the time to have the meltdown he so desperately wants to spiral into, or Geralt will never be able to give him the answers he needs.

“Geralt.” Jaskier removes Geralt’s mask and sees that there’s blood on his lips. “What’s this potion?”

Geralt doesn’t reply. The only sign that he’s still alive is the blood that still spills freely from the wound. There’s so much of it. How much can a human bleed before it’s fatal? And is Geralt even human enough to be affected by something as mundane as blood loss?

There’s one person that will know. Jaskier runs for his phone, blood-slicked fingers fumbling as he tries to unlock it. As soon as Yennefer picks up, he blurts out, “It’s Geralt. He’s been stabbed and he’s unconscious and he told me that he needs to take a potion to heal, but I don’t know what potion he was talking about or where to find it.”

To her credit, Yennefer doesn’t waste their time asking any of the obvious questions, like “what the fuck are you talking about?” or “how do you know this?” Instead, she says in a clipped voice, “Inside his jacket on the right side, over his chest. There’s a little case that will have at least three bottles. Tell me how many are empty.”

Jaskier slips his hand inside Geralt’s jacket and finds a pocket over his chest. Sure enough, there’s a little brown pouch. When he opens it, all he finds is broken glass. “These are broken.”

Yennefer hisses a curse. “Are his eyes yellow or black?”

“Yellow.”

“Shit. That means he’s not going to heal on his own. Where are you?”

“My apartment.”

“Did whoever stab him follow him there?”

“I don’t think so.” Jaskier glances towards the window, which is still wide open. The windowsill is smeared with blood.

“I’ll be right there. Try and stop the bleeding the best you can.” She hangs up before he can ask exactly how he’s supposed to do that.

Geralt’s bleeding is slowing down. Jaskier doesn’t think that’s a good thing. He bunches up a pillowcase and presses it against the wound. Red immediately seeps through the buttercup yellow fabric. Jaskier is definitely going to need new sheets after this, if not a new bed. Maybe even an entirely new apartment.

“Please don’t die on me,” he tells Geralt. “I am so pissed off at you and if you die, I won’t be able to be angry at you any more. And I need to be angry at you, because the alternative is just… Why didn’t you fucking tell me?”

Geralt doesn’t reply. His breathing is shallow and he’s so still.

A portal opens up behind him and despite himself, Jaskier flinches. He’s seen Yennefer’s portals before, but it never fails to freak him out when a pocket of nothingness opens up in the middle of a room. He can clearly see Geralt’s apartment on the other side and hears Yennefer’s irritated voice say, “No, Roach, _stay,_ ” before she steps through the portal and it closes behind her. She takes one look at Geralt on the bed and visibly pales.

“Oh, gods, Geralt.” She rushes to his side. “Did he say what happened?”

“Just that he was impaled.”

“For the love of…” Yennefer clenches her teeth. “Did he say how much potion he’d taken?”

“No, just that he needed more.”

Yennefer lets out a colorful stream of curses. “Help me undress him. I need a better look at his wounds.”

Jaskier helps her peel off Geralt’s blood-soaked clothes, wincing at the sight of Geralt's injuries. In addition to the hole in his stomach, his shoulders and chest are mottled with bruises, there’s a stab wound in his thigh, and one of his legs is clearly broken. Jaskier can’t believe Geralt is still alive and that he was able to drag himself to Jaskier’s apartment. Yennefer holds her hands over Geralt, not quite touching him, and closes her eyes. Jaskier watches her for a moment, holding his breath.

“Change of plans,” Yennefer says and her voice is suddenly very calm. It’s the calmness that worries Jaskier more than anything. “Even with the potion, he’s not going to heal fast enough. There’s too much internal damage.”

“Then what do we do?” Jaskier’s voice trembles.

“You’re going to hold him down because what I’m about to do will hurt like hell.”

Jaskier doesn’t think he has the upper body strength to hold Geralt down, even with Geralt weakened, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he leans over Geralt and braces his hands on his ex-boyfriend’s shoulders.

“What are you going—” he starts to ask, but then Yennefer puts her hands over Geralt’s wound and Jaskier can feel the magic crackling in the air. Geralt lets out a strangled moan and starts to sit up, nearly throwing Jaskier and Yennefer off of him.

“Jaskier, hold him!” Yennefer snaps.

“It’s like trying to hold down a buffalo,” Jaskier says through gritted teeth, straining to force Geralt down.

“He’s bleeding to death. He’s as weak as a kitten right now.”

“What the fuck kind of kittens are you hanging out with?” But Jaskier straddles Geralt’s thighs, pressing down on the larger man with all his body weight. It’s not an unfamiliar position, though normally when Geralt’s under him, it’s a lot more fun and a lot less terrifying. 

“Am I in your way?” he asks Yennefer, gripping Geralt’s wrists.

“I’ll manage.” Her eyes are focused on Geralt.

Geralt lets out a strangled moan. His eyes are slit open, uncomprehending as they look up at Jaskier.

“Hey, it’s me.” Jaskier keeps his voice low and soothing, like he’s talking to Roach during a thunderstorm. “It’s me. You’re okay. Yennefer and I are here and you’re going to be fine.”

“Jask,” Geralt rasps and Jaskier’s chest aches.

“I’m here,” he whispers again.

“Sorry.”

“Shh. Rest.” Jaskier leans his forehead against Geralt’s. “You’re going to be okay. Yenn’s going to heal you and then you’re going to be fine.”

And then Jaskier is going to rip him approximately twenty-seven new assholes, but this isn’t the time to bring that up.

Geralt groans, squeezing his eyes closed, and Jaskier laces their fingers together.

“You told me this wasn’t going to be what kills you,” he reminds Geralt.

“Wouldn’t be the first lie I’ve told you.”

“That’s a conversation for later.” It’s hard to be mad at Geralt right now, when his skin is pale and clammy, his eyes are closed, and he looks so vulnerable.

"I'm sorry."

"You already said that."

"Because I am."

Before Jaskier can answer, he feels a gentle touch on his shoulder and turns to find Yennefer watching them somberly. “I need to put him to sleep for a few hours, while his body finishes healing,” she says.

“So he’s going to be okay?” Jaskier’s voice cracks.

She nods. “His body just needs rest.”

Jaskier lets go of Geralt and climbs out of bed. Geralt reaches for him, breaking what’s left of Jaskier’s poor, battered heart, but his hand falls limply to his side when Yennefer places her palm on his forehead. Geralt lets out a deep sigh and goes still.

Jaskier’s eyes meet Yennefer’s. She has blood on her face and under the perfect eyeliner and lipstick, her skin is ashen. As Jaskier watches, she sways a bit and has to grip the headboard to stay on her feet.

“So,” Jaskier says. “Whiskey or wine?”

A ghost of a smile flickers over her face. “Whiskey. Definitely whiskey.”

***

The second time that Geralt and Jaskier met was at a retirement party for someone Geralt didn’t know, some senior writer for the sports section. He hadn’t planned on going, but Charlotte told him that it was expected that all employees would be there. Geralt quickly realized that she was hoping that he would be interested in an after-party for just the two of them and spent most of the evening avoiding her. He sat and talked to Lambert and Eskel for a while, but they soon bored of him and found another conversation to join. Not that that bothered Geralt--he was boring by design. He wanted people to neither like nor dislike him. Best case scenario, no one here would remember his name in six months after he caught the Ghoul and moved on.

He sat at a booth alone, watching the enthusiastic karaoke at the bar. The singers were a cute little blonde and a lanky kid with thick, wavy brown hair and startling blue eyes. The kid was putting his heart and soul into the song, including hips that gyrated a little too enthusiastically for an office party. They were nice hips, Geralt noted absentmindedly. He wore an emerald green denim jacket and jeans that were so tight, Geralt was surprised he could move his hips at all. Vaguely, Geralt remembered meeting him during his tour. What had his name been? Justin? John? Geralt was pretty sure he wrote for the entertainment section.

The song ended and Geralt went back to staring into his beer and wondering how long he had to sit there before he could leave without looking like an antisocial jackass.

“I love the way you sit in a corner and brood.”

Geralt looked up and found the blue-eyed entertainment writer grinning down at him. He wasn’t sure what to say, so he settled for, “Hm.”

“You mind if I join you?” The other man gestured to the seat opposite from Geralt’s. “With the sitting. Not the brooding. I tried the mysterious broody thing in high school and it didn’t work out for me.”

Geralt nodded. He couldn’t imagine this man being mysterious or broody.

The man sat and held out his hand. “You probably don’t remember me from the other day. I’m Jaskier.”

Geralt took his hand. His fingers were long and slender, with calluses on his fingertips. Probably from a guitar, he decided. The other man looked like he owned a guitar. “Geralt.”

***

“How long?” Jaskier asks Yennefer quietly, aware of the sleeping man across the room. Jaskier and Yennefer are sitting next to each other on the couch, each nursing their glass of whiskey. Jaskier has done the best he can to wash Geralt’s blood off his hands, but it still stains the cracks in his fingertips and under his nails.

Yennefer stares into her glass. “Since he was sixteen.”

“How long have you known?”

“The whole time. I knew him before he was the Witcher. Or the Butcher, like they used to call him. Have you ever heard of the Gray Wolf?”

“That was Geralt?” Jaskier demands. He’s heard of the vigilante (or assassin, depending on who you asked) that prowled the streets of Ard Carraigh decades ago.

“Gods, no.” Yennefer snorts. “That was Vesemir. But you know that when Geralt wakes up, I’m going to tell him that you thought he was a vigilante that was active fifty years ago.”

“How am I supposed to know how old Geralt is? He could be immortal, for all I know. He could be a thousand years old.”

“Of course he’s not. He’s thirty-five. Well, we think he is. It’s not like his mom left him with a birth certificate.” The smile falls off Yennefer’s face. “When Vesemir found Geralt, he groomed him to be the Gray Wolf’s successor. Geralt’s been training to be the man he is today since he was practically a baby.”

Jaskier shudders. “I guess that’s why I never met Vesemir.”

“Vesemir is very big on the lone wolf act. He thinks attachments lead to weakness. If it makes you feel better, he never approved of Geralt’s relationship with me either.”

“I guess that’s better than him being a homophobic fuckwad.” Jaskier takes a deep swig of his whiskey. “Why didn’t he tell me, Yenn?”

She’s silent for a moment. “You’ll need to ask him that.”

“Will he give me a straight answer?”

“Might take him a few tries, but he’ll get there. He adores you, Jask. You’ll never know how much.”

Jaskier scoffs. “I think he told me that he loved me a grand total of three times while we were together.”

“That would be Vesemir’s influence.”

Jaskier takes another sip of whiskey to give him the liquid courage he needs to ask his next question. “That night, did you two…”

“No. He was with me, but we didn’t sleep together.”

“What happened that night?”

“That’s another thing he needs to tell you.” Yennefer sighs. “The last time Geralt and I slept together was three years ago, right after he’d moved to Novigrad. He was distracted the entire time. Little did I know that he’d just met some skinny little twerp at some terrible office party.”

“Hey, that was a great office party.”

She makes a disgusted noise. “Geralt is my best friend. I love him more than anyone in the world. But we haven’t been lovers in a long time and we never will be again.”

Jaskier swallows back the lump in his throat.

“I didn’t talk to him for weeks after that night you were attacked,” Yennefer says. “I didn’t think I’d ever forgive him. We only made up after he adopted Ciri. She’d been through so much, being raised by Geralt alone isn’t another trauma she needs. After what happened to Calanthe—”

“Wait, Calanthe Riannon?” Jaskier’s jaw drops. “The Lioness of Cintra is Ciri’s grandmother?”

Yennefer side-eyes him suspiciously. “How much whiskey did you give me?”

“A normal amount. It’s not my fault you’re miniscule.”

She slaps him on the knee, which he probably deserves.

“Does Ciri have Calanthe’s powers?” he asks.

Yennefer hesitates, glances at the sleeping Geralt as if to make sure he’s not listening, then nods.

“Shit.” Jaskier draws out the world to make it several syllables. “Is Geralt training her to be a baby superhero?”

“She wishes. No, he’s trying to give her a normal teenage experience. It’s going about as well as you can expect.”

“Doesn’t he know that normal teenage experiences suck?”

“He never had one, so no.” She smiles sadly. “I wanted him to tell you. I almost told you myself a couple of times.”

“I wish you had.”

“He never would have forgiven me. I understand why you’re mad at him. You should be. He deserves it. But you need to remember that Geralt never had relationships with normal people before you. Vesemir was his only family. I was his only friend. He tried so hard to be the perfect domestic boyfriend he thought you needed. He just wasn’t very good at it.”

Jaskier closes his eyes. “No, he was pretty great at it.”

The couch creaks as Yennefer scoots closer to him. “I’ve missed you, Jask.”

“I’ve missed you too.” He loops an arm around her shoulder and rests his cheek on the top of her head. “I’m sorry.”

“What do you have to be sorry about?”

“I’ve thought some really horrible things about you in the last six months.”

“Like that I’m a homewrecking trollop?”

“Among other things. I should have known that you would never do that.”

“Maybe, but there’s no sense in you wasting your time feeling guilty now. Geralt’s been doing enough of that for the both of you.”

Jaskier glances towards the bed, where Geralt still sleeps peacefully. “I think I still love him.”

She snorts. “Obviously.”

“I don’t want to.”

“We don’t normally get a choice about these things.” She presses a kiss against his cheek. “I should go. I don’t want Ciri to be alone in the apartment when she wakes up in the morning. She may stage a coup.”

“You’re leaving me with him?”

Yennefer smirks as she stands up. “He’s not going to bite. Not unless you want him to.”

“But what if he wakes up?”

“Then you two have a talk you should have had six months ago.” She waves her hand and opens a portal. “He should be completely healed when he wakes up. Tired from blood loss, though. Don’t let him go to work. He needs to rest.”

Jaskier swallows back his unease. It’s ridiculous to be nervous about being left alone with Geralt. “Yenn?”

“Yeah?”

“Are we friends again?”

She shoots him a small, sad smile. “We were always friends, Jaskier.”

***

When Geralt wakes up, he’s stripped to his boxer briefs and lying in a bed drenched in dried blood. He reaches down to touch the place where the Shrike stabbed him and finds nothing but smooth skin. There’s not even a scar; Yennefer is good at what she does. He stretches, wincing a little as his sore muscles protest. His body always aches after a magical healing; it’s a dull pain he’s become very familiar with in the last twenty years.

“Oh, good, you lived.” Jaskier stands at the foot of the bed. He’s still wearing his bloodstained pajamas and doesn’t look like he got a wink of sleep. “I was afraid if you died in your sleep, Yenn would blame me and turn me into something small and slimy.”

“If Yenn is going to turn anyone into something small and slimy, it’s going to be me.” Geralt notices the sunlight streaming through the window. “Shit, what time is it?”

“It’s fine. Yennefer stayed with Ciri last night and is seeing her off to school. I sent Foltest an email from you telling him that Ciri is puking her guts out and needs to go to the doctor.” Jaskier looks a bit smug at his own craftiness. “Your email password is still my birthday.”

Slowly, Geralt sits up. “All of my passwords are your birthday.”

Something shifts in Jaskier’s expression. “As for me, I told the Countess I was hunting down a source for the Shrike story, so I won’t be in until later. Which isn’t entirely inaccurate. Renfri’s the one who stabbed you, right?”

Geralt doesn’t answer.

“Look, I know you’re the Witcher. I also know you showed up here last night with a pike shoved into your gut. Or are you going to tell me you tripped and fell onto the pike? Maybe during one of your late night walks?”

Geralt groans. “Yeah, it was Renfri.”

“Why would she attack you?”

“Because she kills people.”

Jaskier’s jaw clenches. “You went after her because she kidnapped me, didn’t you?”

“It was a contributing factor.”

“I told you, I wasn’t in any danger.”

“She asked you to write her story because she thought if you landed on Stregobor’s radar, I’d have to help her kill him.”

Jaskier’s mouth opens, then closes. “Well, fuck.”

“Yeah.”

“So, the huge story that just fell in my lap only happened so I could be used as collateral for you? Great. That’s great.” Jaskier scrubs his hands over his face. “I’m going to make some coffee. You want coffee?”

“Please.”

While Jaskier makes the coffee, Geralt changes back into his pants. The black fabric hides the bloodstains, for the most part. His shirt is torn to tatters, but Jaskier left him out a sweatshirt that Geralt is fairly certain used to be his. He finds his wolf medallion sitting on Jaskier’s nightstand and slips it on, hiding it under the sweatshirt. He still aches with every movement, but after gulping down a mug of coffee and two bowls of stale cereal, he feels almost human again.

Jaskier leans against his kitchen counter and watches him guardedly as Geralt starts on his second mug of coffee. “I have questions.”

Geralt nods. He’s only surprised that he’s been awake a whole twenty minutes without Jaskier interrogating him.

“Is Geralt Rivia your real name?” Jaskier asks.

“It’s the name Vesemir gave me. I probably had a name before that, but I don’t remember it.”

“Yennefer told me that Vesemir was the Gray Wolf.”

“What else did she tell you?”

“Not much.” Jaskier shrugs. “She said it was a conversation that you and I had to have. And we’re having it, Geralt.”

Geralt puts down his mug with a sigh. “What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start with everything and go from there.”

“Everything? I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“The potion,” Jaskier says. “What is it? What does it do?”

“It’s what gives me my abilities.”

“All of them?”

Geralt nods. “All of them. Without it, I’m just a man who’s very good with a sword.”

“Last night, Yennefer seemed worried about how many doses you’d taken,” Jaskier says.

“I can only take two or three at a time. Any more than that, and it makes me sick. Enough could kill me. Vesemir started giving me small doses when I was a toddler. It took me years to build up enough tolerance to take a single dose and not spend the night retching over the toilet.”

“So not just anyone could take it?” Jaskier wears an expression very similar to Ciri’s when she’s asked Geralt that question multiple times.

“No,” Geralt says firmly. “They would be an unstoppable killing machine for about five minutes before all their organs failed.”

“Could be worth it.” A smile tugs at the corners of Jaskier’s mouth.

“It’s not.” Geralt crosses his arms over his chest. “What other questions do you have?”

Jaskier drums his fingertips on the countertop and Geralt knows he’s dying to take notes. “You came to Novigrad for the Ghoul.”

“Yes. I followed him from Cintra.”

“So why get a job at the Press?”

“Vigilantism doesn’t pay the bills. The Press is a good cover. It gives me an excuse to ask questions about crimes and when I occasionally turn up at crime scenes where I shouldn’t be, they think I’m just an overzealous reporter. I’d been hunting the Ghoul for years. I had a feeling I’d be in Novigrad for a while.”

“But you stayed here,” Jaskier says softly. “Even after you caught the Ghoul, you stayed here.”

Geralt meets his gaze. “I did.”

Jaskier looks away quickly. “When we first started hanging out, it was right after the Ghoul had sent me that package.”

Geralt knows where this is going, and immediately shuts it down. “Us being together never had anything to do with the Ghoul. It never had anything to do with the Witcher. I need you to know that. I found excuses to be near you because I was worried about you being the Ghoul’s next target, but that was because I liked you and I wanted you to be safe. But I never used you as a way to get to the Ghoul. I would never have done that.”

Jaskier nods. “Okay. All those late night walks?”

“I was out on patrol.”

“So you would just leave our apartment, go beat up some bad guys, and come back and get back into bed?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier’s mouth works. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

And there’s the question Geralt has known was coming and has been dreading, because he doesn’t have a good answer. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Jaskier lets out a humorless little laugh. “How do you not know?”

“I almost told you a few times.”

“And what, you always got a call about a hostage situation at the last moment?”

“No, I lost my nerve. The night of the Ghoul attack, you recognized me.”

Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “I did?”

“When I was carrying you out, you looked at me and said my name. I was going to come clean about everything the next day, but you didn’t remember anything. Things were new between us and you were so shaken up by what had happened with the Ghoul, I thought finding out I was the Witcher would traumatize you all over again. So I kept waiting to tell you and the right time never happened.”

“What would have been the right time, Geralt?” Jaskier asks, voice laced with acid.

“I don’t know.”

“I can think of a few times. ‘Yes, Jaskier, I’ll be your boyfriend, but just so you know, I’m the Witcher.’ Or, ‘Jaskier, would you like to move in with me? I keep a weird sleep schedule because I’m the Witcher.’ Or even, “Honey, can you pass the rolls? Got to load up on the carbs for my night of crime fighting.’ Any of those would have done the trick.”

“I don’t have a good explanation for you,” Geralt says softly.

“Did you think I’d write a story about you and tell the world who you were? Did you think I couldn’t keep my mouth shut? Or that I’d get in the way? What about me made you think you couldn’t trust me with this?”

“It had nothing to do with trust, Jaskier. Of course I trust you.”

Jaskier’s voice grows louder. “Do you? Then if you weren’t going to tell me at any other time, six months ago would have been a great time.”

“I know. But—”

“What, I was too traumatized to handle the truth?”

“No.” Geralt takes a deep breath. “I thought I would lose you.”

“You lost me anyway!” Jaskier practically shouts. Someone in the next apartment bangs on the wall and Jaskier bangs right back. When Jaskier turns back to Geralt, his cheeks are red with anger. “The night Cahir attacked me, you stood there and watched me try to call you. I thought you were dead, and you were right in front of me.”

“I was going to leave and come right back as Geralt, but I ran into Cahir.”

“Who was Cahir? Why did he try to kill us?”

“We called him the Black Knight. He was some anti-superpowers fanatic who was targeting people like me all over the Continent. He killed the Lioness of Cintra and her husband, Eist, and then he came after me. But he found you instead.”

“So those men in our apartment had nothing to do with Geralt Rivia, reporter, and everything to do with the Witcher,” Jaskier says flatly.

Geralt nods. “After I killed Cahir, I was badly injured. I’d taken the max amount of potion I could safely take, so I had to go to Yennefer for healing. She spent so much power healing the massive amounts of internal bleeding that she couldn’t be bothered with the bruises and scratches.”

“Hence the bite mark on your shoulder and the fact that you reeked of her perfume.”

“Yes.”

Jaskier is quiet for a long moment, staring down at the floor. “I spent the last six months thinking that you never actually loved me. Or worse, that you did love me, but it wasn't enough for you to stay. I thought there was something wrong with me that my boyfriend and one of my best friends would betray me like that. Do you know what that does to a person? I felt horrible. I felt worthless. You broke my heart.”

“I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

“Sorry doesn’t mean anything. Sorry doesn’t fix this.”

Geralt swallows back the lump of emotion in his throat. “I just didn’t want you involved in this.”

“Then you never should have dated me in the first place!”

Geralt doesn’t answer.

Jaskier shakes his head. “Just get out of my apartment.”

“Jaskier—”

“That wasn’t a request. Get out. I can’t look at you right now.”

Geralt has so much he could say to Jaskier. He has no idea what to say. So he takes one last look at Jaskier, gathers his things, and leaves.

***

Fuck Geralt.

Fuck the Witcher.

Fuck the Shrike.

Fuck the Press.

Fuck Jaskier, for being an idiot.

Fuck everything.

The litany runs through Jaskier’s head as he makes his way to the office, still shaken and furious. “He didn’t want to get me involved,” he mutters to himself on the elevator. “I guess nearly getting murdered a half dozen times didn’t make me involved. That fucking… _fuck._ ”

He storms off the elevator and makes his way to his cubicle. No sooner has he flopped down at his desk, then Essi sticks her head around the corner.

“Judging by the cloud of misery you brought into the office, I’m guessing your source didn’t pan out?” she asks.

“No, it was a waste of my time,” Jaskier says.

“There will be other sources.” Her brows knit in confusion. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s great. Peachy. Splendid.”

“What did Geralt do now?”

“Not everything’s about Geralt, Essi,” Jaskier snaps, then immediately feels like an enormous asshole. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay,” she says slowly. “I can see this has nothing to do with Geralt.”

Jaskier massages his aching temples. “I’m just having a shit day and it’s not even noon.”

“Well, I don’t see it getting any better, because the CEO of Black Sun Industries is in the Countess’ office right now.”

“What?” Jaskier jumps up from his seat to get a better look at the Countess’ closed office door. “Stregobor’s here?”

“They’ve been in there for two hours,” Essi says.

“Doing what?”

“Do I look like I have x-ray vision? I’m not the Witcher.”

“He doesn’t have x-ray vision.” Something twists in Jaskier’s gut at the mention of the Witcher and Jaskier realizes that it’s grief. He’s grieving the Witcher, the idealized hero that came to his rescue so many times, and the massive crush he had on the man. The Witcher is never going to come swooping to Jaskier's rescue again and if he does, Jaskier will know it's the man who broke his heart under the mask.

Before Essi can reply, the door to the Countess’ office opens and a man steps out. He’s not a physically imposing man, average height and slim with a thin face and a neatly trimmed gray beard. He doesn’t have the aura of power and authority Jaskier would expect of a sorcerer of his standing, but Jaskier knows that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Yennefer is the scariest sorceress he knows, but she’s not exactly physically intimidating either.

Stregobor’s gaze meets Jaskier’s; Jaskier feels it like a physical blow. A small smile curls the edges of the sorcerer’s lips and Jaskier knows that he won’t like the result of whatever conversation just happened. The Countess emerges from her office, cheeks flushed. Stregobor says something in a low voice and the Countess laughs. Not even the tinny, fake laugh she normally uses, but the booming laugh Jaskier was once naive enough to think was just for him. Fuck, Jaskier is really not going to like whatever just happened in that office.

Stregobor spares Jaskier one last smug look and then strides through the sea of cubicles. Jaskier waits until he’s safely out of sight, then makes a beeline for the Countess’s office. Maybe he can undo whatever damage was just done.

“Oh, Julian!” the Countess says brightly before Jaskier can even open his mouth. “I was just coming to get you. I’ve reassigned the Shrike story to Lambert.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops. “What?”

“Well, it really is a story for the crime beat,” she says breezily. “And this whole thing with Project Lilit and Black Sun Industries… well, it’s a bit conspiracy theory-ish, isn’t it? Sounds more like a story those illiterates at _The Redanian Mail_ would come up with.”

“You seemed pretty sold on it yesterday,” Jaskier says.

“Well, I had time to think about it. Like I said, it’s just not a story for us.”

Jaskier stares at her. Her eyes are slightly glassy. Charlotte de Stael has a lot of personal and professional failings; being a pushover isn’t one of them. More important people than Stregobor have tried to bully and bribe her into dropping stories. Whatever conversation Stregobor just had with her, Jaskier is pretty sure it involved a good deal of compulsion.

“Fine,” he says, because there’s nothing else to say. “I’ll send Lambert my notes.”

With Geralt being the Witcher, Essi annoyed at him for his earlier snappishness, and his big story going to _Lambert_ of all people, Jaskier doesn’t think this day can get any worse. At least, not until he gets home and finds an eviction notice taped to his window.

***


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With his apartment and his job on the line, Jaskier turns to Geralt for help.

The first time the Witcher saved Jaskier’s life, he was walking home from a coworker’s retirement party, pleasantly buzzed on beer and his conversation with his cute new coworker. Sure, Geralt had bolted from the party after getting a text message, but before that, things had been going great. Jaskier was mostly certain that Geralt hadn’t fled the party to get away from him. At least ninety percent certain. Maybe eighty percent certain.

As he crossed the street, he was so preoccupied with rehashing his conversation of Geralt that he didn’t notice the car racing towards him until it was nearly upon him, headlights flooding his vision and tires squealing.

Panic locked his muscles into place and Jaskier froze.

And then a black-clad figure was between him and the car. Jaskier didn’t see where they came from; one minute it was just him and two tons of impending death, and then there was someone shielding him. The newcomer made some kind of complicated sign in the air and a purple shield sprung up in front of them. The car hit it at full speed and the bumper crumpled like an aluminum can crushed against a brick wall. Jaskier stumbled backwards and sank to the cold pavement, his knees giving out from under him.

Jaskier’s rescuer turned. He was clad from head to toe in black, but Jaskier could see that he was built like a bodybuilder. The only features he could make out were the eyes and the bridge of his nose; the rest of his face was covered by a mask. His eyes were totally black. It should have been terrifying. Jaskier should have been scrambling away in fear. But he couldn’t look away.

“Are you alright?” The man’s voice was a low, guttural growl. It barely sounded human.

It took Jaskier a moment to find his voice. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Good. Watch where you’re going next time.” And then before Jaskier could think of a reply that was cutting, witty, and maybe a little seductive, the man turned and vanished into the night just as three cop cars pulled up.

It was only the next day that Jaskier learned that the driver of the car had been fleeing the scene of a bank robbery that had turned into a hostage situation. It was a week later when he learned that his savior was a vigilante known as the Witcher, who’d been popping up all over the Continent for over a decade and had finally come to Novigrad. Even though he had nothing to do with writing about vigilantes, Jaskier followed the development of the story, fascinated.

He couldn’t get those black eyes out of his head.

***

Even after a day of taking it easy, Geralt is still sore and exhausted as he makes his way to work. He thought about calling out of the office again and claiming that Ciri is still sick, just so he wouldn’t have to see Jaskier, but that would be pure cowardice. Geralt can’t avoid Jaskier forever, not unless he wants to quit his job. The thought seems increasingly appealing as Geralt replays the hurt expression on Jaskier’s face. Geralt knew he’d fucked everything up with Jaskier, but he’s just starting to understand the depth of the devastation he left in his wake. He just doesn’t know how to face it yet.

When the elevator doors slide open to the forty-fifth floor, the first thing Geralt sees is Jaskier waiting for him. For an instant, Geralt thinks he’s a guilt-induced hallucination, until Jaskier grabs him by the arm. Geralt is too surprised to resist when Jaskier drags him into the nearest empty conference room and slams the door behind them. He wasn’t expecting Jaskier to ever want to talk to him again. His ex looks flustered and angry, but he’s willing to be in the same room with Geralt, which is more than Geralt anticipated.

Jaskier slams a piece of paper down on the table. “I found this taped to my window when I got home last night.”

Geralt scans the letter. “You’re being evicted?”

“They’re converting my building into luxury condos. Have you seen my building? There’s nothing luxurious about it.”

Geralt’s fists clench. Fuck, he should have known this would happen. “They’re only giving you thirty days notice to leave. Legally, they need to give you sixty.”

“I’m going to be too busy apartment hunting to take them to court, Geralt. Fuck, I don’t even like my apartment. It’s a total shithole. I haven’t even unpacked yet! But do you know how hard it is to find a place in Novigrad on my budget? Especially on such short notice. I’m completely fucked.”

“You could stay with me,” Geralt says without thinking. “I mean, Ciri’s in the second bedroom now, but I could sleep on the couch until you find somewhere else.”

Jaskier lets out a short, barking laugh. “Ah, yes, living with my ex-boyfriend. There’s the dream. Thanks, but Essi and Shani offered me their couch. I could even move back home if I had to. Lettenhove is only a three hour drive round trip. Easy commute, right?”

“You would hate that,” Geralt says. The one time he met Jaskier’s parents, their disapproval and contempt for their only son was palpable. Jaskier hardly said a word all through dinner.

“I would. But I’ve slept on Essi’s couch before, after… well, everything happened with you. It’s not very comfortable. I don’t want to sleep on a couch, Geralt. I don’t want to be in the way.” Jaskier scrubs his hands over his face. “I did some digging last night and guess who just bought the management company who owns my building? Stregobor.” 

“Hm.”

At Geralt’s lack of reaction, Jaskier frowns. “But you already knew that.”

“I did.”

“He was here yesterday. He was in a meeting with the Countess when I got here. I think he must have used compulsion on her, because she took me off the Shrike story and reassigned it to Lambert.”

“Stregobor was here?” The thought of Stregobor in the same building as Jaskier is enough to make Geralt’s stomach turn. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. He didn’t come anywhere near me, just smirked at me and left. He’d gotten what he wanted out of the Countess. He didn’t need me. So I don’t get why he would have me evicted.”

Geralt’s stomach lurches. “The end of the month is only ten days away.”

Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest. “Are you going to tell me what that means, Geralt, or am I going to have to go get Yennefer to read some tea leaves?”

“Stregobor gave me until the end of the month to kill Renfri, or he was going to go after you, Ciri, and Yennefer. This was his warning shot.”

Jaskier is quiet for a moment. “Remember that conversation we had yesterday morning where I told you to tell me everything?”

“Vividly.”

“Just so you know, an evil sorcerer who experiments on children being my landlord and threatening to evict me counts as something I should know.”

“You asked me to leave before I could tell you everything.”

“And I’m sure if you’d stuck around, you would have been entirely forthcoming.” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “What else did he threaten you with?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

Jaskier doesn’t answer, just gives him a flat, unamused, almost Yennefer-like look. “Geralt.”

Geralt rubs his temples. “To expose my identity, which would put you, Yenn, and Ciri in danger. Telling the world that Yennefer is part-elf and destroying her business. And revealing that Ciri is Calanthe’s granddaughter and that she has her powers.”

Jaskier shakes his head, dismayed. “So you’re working for Stregobor?”

“No. I want nothing to do with Stregobor. I want nothing to do with any of this, but Stregobor and Renfri won’t leave me out of it.”

Jaskier takes a deep breath. “Does Yennefer know?”

“No.”

“Does Ciri know?”

“She’s sixteen. She shouldn’t be involved in this.”

“People deserve to know when their lives are being threatened, Geralt.” Geralt used to love the way Jaskier says his name when he’s exasperated. “Stregobor isn’t some bank robber or carjacker. He’s one of the most powerful people in Novigrad, if not the Continent. You can’t go after someone like that alone! You need Yennefer and me and probably the girl who can kill with a scream.”

“I don’t want your help with Stregobor,” Geralt says. “I don’t want you anywhere near this.”

Jaskier holds up the eviction notice. “Too late.”

“I’ll fix this. I’ll go to Stregobor and—”

“What? Tell him you’ll kill Renfri?”

Geralt falls silent.

“That’s what I thought,” Jaskier says. “This isn’t a problem you can attack with swords. You need help. I need help. If I storm Stregobor Tower and confront the bastard by myself, I’m going to end up a greasy stain on the carpet that some poor intern will have to clean up.”

“Do not try and confront Stregobor by yourself.”

“I don’t love the idea myself. We can work together or work separately, Geralt. If we work separately, you’re definitely going to end up rescuing me from some underground torture chamber.”

“Or you could just trust me to handle this.”

“Because handling this yourself is going so well?” Pointedly, Jaskier looks down at Geralt's healed stomach.

Geralt winces and touches the place where he was stabbed. “I’m—”

“If you end that sentence with ‘fine,’ I’m going to flip a table. You almost weren’t fine. You almost died. That’s what happens when you refuse to let people help you!”

“I let you help me.”

“Only when you were bleeding to death! Maybe if you’d told us what was going on earlier, it wouldn’t have come to that.”

Geralt decides to try a different tactic. “If you get caught researching this story after the Countess took you off it, you’ll lose your job, not just your apartment.”

Jaskier shrugs. “So I won’t get caught.”

“It’s not that easy, Jask.”

“This bastard is trying to use me as a pawn. He’s not going to get away with it.” Jaskier steps closer to Geralt. “You want me to trust you to handle this? How about you trust me to help you and not get myself killed?”

“Why do you want to be involved with this?” Geralt asks softly. “You’re angry at me.”

“I’m so mind-numbingly furious at you that I want to scream. But right now, Stregobor is the one who’s threatening to leave me homeless, so I’m going to deal with one asshole at a time. Please don’t shut me out here, Geralt. I’m so tired of you shutting me out.”

Geralt knows he’s lost this fight. He’s pretty sure he lost it the second Jaskier dragged him into this room. “Come over for dinner tonight.”

Jaskier cocks an eyebrow. “Just because I want to kick Stregobor’s ass with you doesn’t mean—”

“Not like that. You’re right. You need to hear the whole story. So do Yennefer and Ciri. So come over for dinner tonight, and the four of us can talk.”

Jaskier hesitates.

“Roach would like to see you,” Geralt adds.

Jaskier is as weak for Roach as Geralt is for Jaskier. “Fine. But this time, you’re really going to tell me everything. If I find out that you’re still holding out on me, I’ll… well, I don’t know what I’ll do, but you won’t like it.”

Geralt can’t stop the fond smile from spreading over his face, even though he knows it will just annoy Jaskier more. “You need to work on your threats.”

“You need to work on your communication skills.”

“I know.”

“Everything, Geralt.” Jaskier pokes Geralt in the sternum. “Everything.”

Even after Jaskier withdraws his finger, Geralt can feel the place where he touched him. He nods. “Everything.”

***

Jaskier hasn’t been back to Geralt’s apartment since the night of the break-in. He slept on Essi and Shani’s couch for the couple of weeks it took him to find a new place to live. Essi and Shani went to pick up his things for him when he moved into his new apartment. It’s been six months, but Jaskier’s feet still carry him down the familiar sidewalks while his brain occupies itself with trying not to dwell on the last time he was here. It’s incredibly weird to ring the intercom to the place he used to live, and just as weird to have it be Ciri’s voice, not Geralt’s, that chirps “Come on up!” through the speaker before buzzing him up. Jaskier takes the stairs instead of the elevator on the way up to the fourth floor; he needs time to prepare.

Jaskier isn’t sure whether or not to knock; he did live there for over a year and spent almost every night there for months before that, but it’s been months. He finally settles for opening the door a crack while knocking. Before he can call out, the door is flung the rest of the way open by eighty pounds of pit bull while Roach tackles Jaskier to the floor. Jaskier is pinned helplessly under her, laughing, while she wiggles and licks his face. He’s happy to have the dog slobber cover the fact that he’s crying a little.

“Roach, let him breathe.” Geralt pulls the dog back, smiling. He has a dish towel thrown over his shoulder. It’s unreasonably attractive. To Jaskier, he adds, “Told you she missed you.”

Jaskier reaches out to cup Roach’s smiling face in his hands, scratching her under the ears, and is rewarded with a blast of doggy breath. “I missed her too.”

Roach rolls over for a belly rub, twisting out of Geralt’s grasp, and Jaskier is happy to have a reason to look away from Geralt.

“You know you’re always welcome to come visit her,” Geralt says, sounding hesitant. “If your next apartment will allow dogs, you could take her for the weekend sometimes.”

Jaskier swallows. “I’d like that.”

Geralt inhales like he’s about to say something else, but Yennefer calls, “Geralt, your garlic bread is burning!”

Geralt mumbles a curse and rushes back into the apartment. Reluctantly, Jaskier ushers Roach after him. The apartment looks no different than it did when Jaskier lived here; Jaskier didn’t bring any furniture when he moved in. The blue-gray couch is identical to the one that they had when Jaskier lived there, though its predecessor ended up riddled with bullet holes and splattered with blood. The only sign that anything is different is the purple sparkly backpack leaning by the door.

“Jaskier!” Ciri comes bounding out of the kitchen. “We weren’t sure if you’d actually come!”

“Well, I’m here.” Jaskier smiles. It’s still disorienting being here, but if he can focus on Ciri, and not the ex-boyfriend currently salvaging his garlic bread, that will make things easier. “Gotten in any more fights?”

“No, I don’t have to.” Ciri smiles wickedly. “All the boys in my class are too scared of me now to fuck with me or my friends.”

“Language,” Yennefer calls from the kitchen, sounding bored.

“Sorry, Yenn!” Ciri doesn’t sound all that sorry. “Anyway, Geralt says if I get suspended again, he’s sending me to one of the Order of Melitele’s boarding schools.”

“He doesn’t mean it,” Jaskier says.

“Of course he doesn’t.” Ciri rolls her eyes. “Come on, dinner’s almost ready.”

She heads into the kitchen, Roach on her heels. Jaskier starts to follow her, but hesitates. This is all overwhelming, and stepping into the kitchen to see Geralt and Yennefer making dinner, like they all did a hundred times before, suddenly seems like it will be too much. He mutters an excuse and hurries down the hall to the bathroom. He splashes some cold water on his face, leaning against the sink.

“Get it together,” he tells his reflection sternly. “You’re just having dinner with your ex in the apartment where you almost died. No big deal.”

His reflection doesn’t have anything encouraging to say. Scrubbing his hands over his face, Jaskier steps out of the bathroom and pauses. The door to their bedroom is slightly ajar. Geralt’s bedroom now, he reminds himself. Feeling like an intruder, Jaskier pushes the door open and steps inside. The walls are bare; Jaskier took all his posters and prints with him when he moved out. The peacock blue duvet that Geralt bought when Jaskier started sleeping over is also gone. To Jaskier’s horror, Geralt doesn’t sleep with any blankets. All that’s on the bed is a simple gray topsheet, neatly made. Looking at the bed causes an ache in Jaskier’s chest, so he looks away.

His eyes find the closed closet door and his stomach turns. Slowly, he makes his way across the room. The hinges squeak as he opens the door and he winces. The walk-in closet is nearly empty; Geralt just doesn’t have enough clothes to fill it. It was overflowing when Jaskier lived here. Jaskier steps inside, closing his eyes against the flood of memories.

_“I keep telling you, you don’t have to die.”_

_“And I already told you, I don’t know where Geralt is.”_

_The click of the gun’s safety being turned off. “I don’t think that’s true, Jaskier. I think you know exactly where he is, and if you tell me, you live. If you don’t, I shoot you. It’s as simple as that.”_

“Jaskier?”

Jaskier flinches.

Ciri stands in the doorway of the closet, her brow furrowed, and Jaskier realizes how bizarre he must look right now, standing in the dark in his ex-boyfriend’s closet, shaking like a leaf. “Everything okay?” she asks hesitantly.

“Yeah, sorry. I just… Is dinner ready?”

“Almost. Is this where Cahir kept you?”

Jaskier swallows. “Yeah.”

“Yenn told me a little bit about what happened. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier remembers that not long before he held a gun to Jaskier’s head, Cahir killed Ciri’s grandparents. “I’m sorry about your grandparents.”

Ciri’s mouth trembles. “I wasn’t there. I was at a sleepover.”

Jaskier is grateful for that fact, though he doubts Ciri sees that as a blessing. “There’s nothing you could have done. It sounds like Geralt was barely able to beat him.”

“I wish I’d been there to see him die,” she says.

Jaskier remembers the cold press of metal against the base of his skull, the blinding terror. “Me too.”

“Yenn said that Geralt fucked everything up with you that night.”

“He sure did.” Jaskier smiles ruefully.

“I think he misses you,” she says. “He talks about you a lot. Well, as much as he talks about anything.”

Jaskier refuses to obsess over that fact. He won’t do it. “Come on, let’s go before Geralt eats all the garlic bread.”

He pulls the closet door closed behind them and does his best not to look back as he follows Ciri out of the room.

***

Dinner is just as awkward as Geralt expected. With four people crowded around his tiny kitchen table, it’s obvious when two of those people are trying their hardest not to look at each other. Ciri occupies what used to be Jaskier’s usual seat, on Geralt’s left, and Yennefer sits to his right, so the only place for Jaskier is directly across the table from Geralt. Geralt keeps looking up and catching Jaskier’s eye, or accidentally brushing Jaskier’s wrist when he reaches across the table to grab the butter. He pretends not to notice Jaskier feeding Roach pieces of meatball under the table.

“How do I make this right?” he wants to ask Jaskier. “How do I fix this?” But there’s no way, so he lets Ciri and Yennefer carry the conversation.

Finally, when everyone’s plates are empty, Geralt puts down his fork. “There’s something that we all need to talk about.”

“Does this have to do with the Shrike almost killing you?” Ciri asks.

“I was nowhere close to dying.”

“You were the closest to dying I’ve ever seen you,” Yennefer says helpfully.

Geralt scowls at her. “I need to tell you all something.”

The three of them are quiet as Geralt explains everything that’s happened in the last week--his meeting with Stregobor, the sorcerer’s blackmail attempts, his two confrontations with Renfri, Renfri’s attempt to use Jaskier as leverage. He watches each of their faces. Ciri is leaning forward, eyes wide, her excitement at being included overtaking any fear. Jaskier’s jaw works the entire time Geralt talks about Renfri and Geralt knows he’s dying to interject. And Yennefer is perfectly still the entire time, her expression impassive. If Geralt didn’t know her so well, he’d have no idea that she was furious.

She’s the one who speaks first when Geralt is done with his story. “Are you fucking kidding me, Geralt?”

Geralt winces. “Yenn…”

“Don’t you ‘Yenn’ me. Stregobor used my shop to blackmail you, and you didn’t think that was worth mentioning to me?”

“Your shop isn’t in any danger.”

“It is, because you’re not planning on killing Renfri! Did you think he wouldn’t follow through on his threats?”

“Would you rather I kill Renfri?” Geralt asks.

Yennefer has to think about that for a moment. “No, of course not. I would rather you use your words, Geralt. Talk to us, so we can help you fix things.”

‘That’s what I’m doing now.”

“After shit has already hit the fan! And I know for a fact that the only reason you told us at all is because this one—” Yennefer jerks a thumb at Jaskier. “--Made you.”

“I wouldn’t say I made him,” Jaskier says. “Let’s go with ‘gently talked some gods damned sense into him.’”

Ciri dissolves into a fit of giggles at that.

“The important thing,” Gerakt says. “Is figuring out what happens next.”

“Well, doing what Stregobor wants isn’t an option,” Yennefer says. “You’re not a hired thug. And even if you did kill Renfri for him, that wouldn’t be the end of it. He’d find more enemies for you to take out.”

“Why don’t you just kill Stregobor?” Ciri asks.

“If only it were that simple.” Yennefer sounds wistful. “He employs some of the most powerful sorcerers on the Continent. His tower has more security than most royal palaces. You can’t just walk up and push him out a window.”

“You sound like you’ve thought about killing Stregobor before, Yenn,” Jaskier says lightly.

Her lip curls. “With that swill he floods the market with and calls magic? I challenge you to find a respectable sorcerer on the Continent who hasn’t.”

“If we cross Stregobor, he’ll ruin all our lives,” Geralt says. “He’s already evicted Jaskier from his apartment, and that was just a warning. He could destroy Yennefer’s business. He could tell the world that Ciri has her grandmother’s powers. And if he reveals that I’m the Witcher, everyone connected to me will be in danger, including all of you.”

“So why not just kill Renfri?” Ciri asks. “She stabbed you!”

Geralt is a bit worried about how bloodthirsty this child is. “Stregobor told me I had to choose the lesser evil. Killing Renfri isn’t the lesser evil.”

“But she stabbed you!”

“She did. And if I’d gotten the upper hand in that fight, I would have stabbed her.” Geralt is exhausted. He wants to go back to stopping bank robberies and kidnappings and be done with trying to figure out what’s the lesser evil.

“We do have some leverage on Stregobor, though,” Jaskier says. “If anyone finds out about Project Lilit, he’s done. No one will do business with someone who experiments on little girls. Well, someone who’s been publicly revealed to experiment on little girls.”

“But the only proof we have so far is Renfri’s story,” Yennefer says. “And there aren’t a lot of people who are going to trust the word of a serial killer.”

“Then we need to find other witnesses. People who worked at Black Sun Industries at that time, the families of the girls who were taken. Renfri said something about her stepmother. Maybe we can get her to talk to us.”

Reflexively, Geralt starts to tell Jaskier that this is too dangerous, but he stops himself. Jaskier knows this is dangerous, but he’s still here. “If you find the name, I’ll go talk to her.”

“I already found her name. Aridea Creyden. She lives in Corvo Bianco. And _we’ll_ go talk to her.” Jaskier’s lips quirk. “You have to admit, Geralt, of the two of us, I’m far more charming.”

“Hm.”

“I’ll take your ‘hm’ as admitting that I’m right.”

“You can take it however you want.” Geralt hesitates. Corvo Bianco is on the other side of the Continent, at least a twelve hour drive. “We could go this weekend.”

He expects Jaskier to back down at the thought of spending a weekend with Geralt, but to his surprise, Jaskier nods. “Okay.”

Well, fuck. “Okay.”

There’s a brief, awkward pause as Geralt and Jaskier stare at each other.

“You can borrow my car,” Yennefer says, breaking the silence. “And Ciri can stay with me, of course.”

“I want to go to Corvo Bianco!” Ciri protests.

“No, Ciri, I’m going to need your help here,” Yennefer says, to Geralt’s relief. 

Ciri frowns. “With what?”

“I’m going to reach out to some of my contacts from the Brotherhood, see if anyone has heard anything. Sorcerers are a gossipy bunch. I know a few people who work for Black Sun Industries. I believe one of my old flames is the head of the science division over there.”

“Istredd?” Geralt is appalled. “You used to be involved with Istredd?”

She smiles at him over her wine glass.”This will shock you, Geralt, but during the off parts of our off-and-on arrangement, I didn’t just sigh longingly and watch out the window for your return.”

“I didn’t think you did. But Istredd? He’s a snake.”

“He has his charms.” From the curl of her lips, Yennefer is remembering the details of Istredd’s charms.

“Well, he stood by and listened as Stregobor talked about destroying your shop,” Geralt says. “Did he know you were part-elf? I’ve been trying to figure out how Stregobor found out.”

The smile falls off Yennefer’s face. “Oh, that jackass.”

“Don’t worry.” Jaskier pats her on the back of the hand. “When we take down Stregobor, Istredd will most likely be collateral damage.”

“There will be nothing collateral about the damage I do to him.” There’s a stony glint in her eye and Geralt almost feels sorry for Istredd.

“So that’s it?” Ciri wrinkles her nose. “We just blackmail the guy who’s blackmailing us?”

“Would you prefer a plan with more stabbing?” Jaskier asks her, looking amused.

“Yes. It seems easier.”

“There’s been enough stabbing.” Geralt rubs the place where Renfri impaled him.

“Stabbing is Plan B,” Jaskier says.

Geralt gives him an exasperated look. “Don’t encourage her.”

Jaskier grins at him, wide and unabashed, and Geralt feels a familiar tug in his chest. And then Jaskier seems to remember that he’s still angry with Geralt and looks away quickly. Geralt mourns the smile as soon as it vanishes.

“So, that’s settled,” Yennefer says. “Stregobor picked the wrong group of people to fuck with. Now we make him regret it.”

***

The last thing Jaskier was expecting was to leave dinner in a good mood, but he’s feeling almost giddy when he makes his way back to his apartment. They have the rough outline of a plan to take down Stregobor. He got to see Roach again. Geralt sent him home with a Tupperware of ravioli and meat sauce. Sitting across the dinner table from Geralt was awkward, but not nearly as terrible as Jaskier expected.

Though he still doesn’t know how to feel about a weekend in Corvo Bianco with Geralt, but that’s something to stress about tomorrow.

He clambers through his apartment window. He’s barely pulled the window closed behind him, when a woman’s voice says, “You’re home late. I was starting to worry.”

Jaskier freezes, hands tightening on the windowsill. He wonders if he could get out the window before she catches him. Probably not, if she’s strong and fast enough to overpower the Witcher twice. “Hi, Renfri.”

In the darkness of his apartment, Renfri is only visible as an outline sitting on his couch. “You should talk to your landlord about getting a better lock on that window. Only took me ten seconds to get in here. I’m good, but not normally that good.”

Slowly, he turns to face her. Can he get to the phone in his pocket and text Geralt without her noticing? “Thanks for the tip.”

She tilts her head to the side. “You’re afraid of me.”

He can’t see a pike anywhere, which is the only thing that staves off the panic. “Well, I did just have a dude nearly bleed to death in my bed after you stabbed him two nights ago, so forgive me if I’m a little jumpy.”

“Did the Witcher live?”

“He did, no thanks to you.”

“Good,” she says. “I didn’t want to do that, but he didn’t give me much of a choice when he came after me.”

Something about her calm infuriates Jaskier. She should be sorry for what she did to Geralt. She should feel terrible. “What do you want?”

“I just want to catch up. Make sure that recent events haven't derailed our agreement.”

“You mean you stabbing my friend in the stomach?”

“Oh, so the Witcher is your friend now?”

Jaskier hesitates, because he honestly doesn’t know how to answer that question. “It’s hard not to be friends with someone after you yank a bloody pike out of their stomach.”

“I get carried away in battle sometimes,” she says. “Once I start a fight, I have to finish it. I was able to hold back the first time I faced your Witcher, but I got too into it the second time. I couldn’t stop.”

“Another one of Stregobor’s enhancements?”

“Could be. Or just my Type A personality. It’s hard to tell.”

The thing is, that Jaskier wants to like Renfri. He wants to trust her. After everything she’s been through, she needs someone in her corner. But he keeps picturing the agony on Geralt’s face while Yennefer healed him. “You nearly killed him.”

“He tried to kill me first.”

“He gets testy when people try to use me as collateral.”

“I never intended to use you as collateral.”

“Didn’t you?”

She hesitates. “It did cross my mind that the Witcher might be more willing to kill Stregobor if someone he cared about was in the crossfire.”

Jaskier swallows back the knot of anger in his throat. “Most people would call that using me as collateral.”

“You were never in any danger.”

“Stregobor came to my work yesterday and compelled my boss to reassign the story about you to someone else. I’m pretty sure he could make me drop dead of a heart attack without even making eye contact with me.” Too late, it occurs to Jaskier that his continued survival might depend on him being the person writing the Shrike story.

But Renfri doesn’t make a move towards him. “So that’s it? You’re off the story?”

“Let’s be clear,” Jaskier says, courage bolstered by her apparent lack of homicidal intent. “I’m still going to write this story and do whatever I can to take Stregobor down, because he’s trying to get me evicted from my apartment and threatening the people I care about. He’s a monster and someone needs to stop him. But you fucked up when you stabbed Ger--the Witcher, and I won’t forget that.”

“It wasn’t personal.”

 _”Everything having to do with him is personal to me,”_ Jaskier wants to tell her, but he manages to bite back the comment. Instead, he says, “It felt pretty personal when I almost had to watch him die.”

“Stregobor sent the Witcher to kill me,” Renfri says coolly. “I didn’t want to kill him, but I needed to defend myself.”

“The Witcher doesn’t work for Stregobor. I thought you came to Novigrad to go after monsters that hurt innocent people. The Witcher has the same goal.”

Renfri snorts. “Then why is he wasting time hunting me down and not going after Stregobor himself?”

Jaskier hesitates, unsure of whether it’s a good idea for Renfri to know their plans. “You’d have to ask him that. I already told you, we only really talk when he has to save my life. Or when he needs somewhere to nearly bleed to death, apparently.”

“Why do I have a feeling that you know the Witcher better than you want to let on, Jaskier?”

“I didn’t think we were at the point in our relationship yet where we sip brightly colored drinks and talk about boys, Renfri.” If Jaskier’s voice is just a little too shaky to properly convey sarcasm, neither of them acknowledges it.

He can’t make out much of Renfri’s facial expression in the darkness, but she almost looks hurt. “So that’s how it’s going to be.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll do everything I can to help take Stregobor down, so long as you don’t stab anyone else I care about.”

Abruptly, Renfri stands up and makes her way towards the window. Jaskier nearly trips over himself getting out of her way. “I’m just doing what I need to do to survive,” she tells him.

“I get that,” Jaskier says, and despite his famous lack of regard for his own survival, he does. “See you later, Renfri.”

She pauses, like she might say something else, then shakes her head and slips out the window into the night.

***

Jaskier’s phone ringing wakes him up the next morning. Blindly, he gropes for it. “Hello?”

“Did I wake you?” Mousesack’s voice is tight with tension.

A glance at his alarm clock tells Jaskier that he should have been up twenty minutes ago. “No, just getting ready for work. What’s going on?”

“I wanted you to hear this from me instead of on the news. It’s the Ghoul.”

Jaskier stops breathing for a moment. He knows what Mousesack is going to say next: that the Ghoul escaped, he’s on the loose, and he’s coming back for Jaskier. He’s already probably here, scalpel in hand. Jaskier looks around frantically, scanning every corner of his apartment. His heart hammers madly in his chest.

“He’s dead,” Mousesack says. “He was found murdered in his jail cell last night.”

Jaskier sags as the adrenaline of his fight or flight response drains out of him. “What happened?”

“Someone impaled him on a pike.”

Jaskier closes his eyes. As far as peace offerings go, it’s an effective one. “The Shrike.”

“It isn’t her usual M.O.,” Mousesack says.

“Most of the Ghoul’s victims were women.”

“But she normally goes after men who have evaded justice. The Ghoul was serving a life sentence with no possibility of parole.” Mousesack hesitates. “It’s so outside her M.O. that I have to ask, Jaskier. You haven’t been in contact with the Shrike, have you?”

Jaskier lets out a hysterical little laugh. “The Shrike? No? Why would I be in contact with her?”

“You do have a tendency to get mixed up in these kinds of things.”

“Those tendencies have been vastly exaggerated. How did she even get into the prison?”

“No idea. The guards saw nothing. The security cameras didn’t pick anything up. She was in and out of there like some kind of wraith.”

Jaskier shudders. 

“Are you sure you don’t have anything to tell me?” Mousesack asks sternly.

Jaskier is very glad that the detective isn’t in front of him so that Jaskier doesn’t have to lie to his face. “No, of course not. I haven’t had anything to do with the Shrike.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this story will be moving outside Novigrad for the next couple of chapters, I just want to give a disclaimer: I am not good with geography. I can barely find my way to the grocery store without a GPS, so there's no way I can keep track of where everything is located on an enormous fictional continent. I know there's a map out there somewhere, but it will just confuse me. So cities will be located where I need them to be for Plot Reasons. I'm sorry to any die hard fans this may distress.
> 
> Next time: Geralt and Jaskier go on a road trip. I'm sure this will go very smoothly and there won't be any drama, pining, or inconvenient sexual tension.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt travel across the Continent to learn more about Project Lilit. Awkwardness and sexual tension ensue.

It wasn’t that Jaskier had wanted the Ghoul to die. He knows that the Ghoul wasn’t a monster; he was just a very, very sick man. But Jaskier can’t deny the relief he feels at the fact that there won’t be any miraculous jailbreaks. He’ll never wake up to see that pleasantly smiling face staring down at him. He’ll never hear that soft voice whispering threats in his ear again. And he feels horrible about that relief, because someone is dead and Jaskier is certain that Renfri killed him as a peace offering. _“Sorry I almost killed the man you love, Jaskier, now how about I take out the serial killer who’s been haunting your nightmares for the last three years?”_

“Do you want to talk about it?” Essi asks him. They’ve been mostly quiet on their drive to the office.

Jaskier shakes his head. “There’s really nothing to talk about.”

“It would be totally normal for you to have feelings about this. It’s a lot.”

“It’s not like I’m sad, Essi.” Jaskier leans his forehead against the car window and closes his eyes. He knows this is going to be every conversation he’ll have all day. The Ghoul’s murder is already all over the news. Everyone from reporters to friends to people Jaskier doesn’t know are going to want to find out how the Ghoul’s last victim feels about his untimely demise.

“I don’t know how I’m feeling,” he says, because he can tell Essi is waiting for him to say more. “I’ll let you know when I do, okay?”

Essi reaches over and squeezes his knee. “Why don’t you come over this weekend? Shani will probably be at work, but you and I can eat ice cream and watch terrible movies. It might take your mind off things.”

It sounds appealing, but Jaskier shakes his head. “I can’t this weekend. I’m going to Corvo Bianco.”

“Corvo Bianco? Why would you go all the way to Corvo Bianco?”

Fuck, Jaskier hadn’t meant to say anything. “Just meeting up with some friends.”

“Friends?” She sounds doubtful.

“I know it’s hard to believe, Ess, but I do have a few of those. Well, besides you and Shani.”

“Since when?”

“Friends from high school. I haven’t seen them in years.” The words burn his throat. Fuck, Jaskier hates lying to Essi. He’s pretty sure the last time he lied to her was when he swore up and down that it was their other roommate who borrowed her favorite fluffy white sweater and spilled a strawberry daiquiri on it. They were sophomores in college and Jaskier only lasted about five minutes before he broke down and told the truth.

“Must be some friends, if you’re willing to go all the way to drive all the way across the Continent just for a weekend,” Essi says. “Well, it’s probably good for you to get away. Get some change of scenery.”

“Oh, yeah.” Jaskier can’t quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. “It’s going to be great.”

***

A couple of months after the Ghoul nearly killed him, Jaskier was still obviously on edge. He was less willing to strike up conversations with strangers in public. He jumped at loud noises and flinched whenever anyone moved too suddenly. He wasn’t sleeping and he’d lost weight. Geralt didn’t know what to do to make things better, so he booked them a weekend trip in the mountains. It was an impromptu getaway, a chance for Jaskier to get out of Novigrad for a bit and escape his memories of the Ghoul.

It was a terribly planned trip. Geralt wasn’t the type for spur of the moment getaways. It was the wrong time of year to be in the mountains; the ski resorts were all closed, but it was too cold to go kayaking or go swimming in the lake. Most of the restaurants and shops were closed for the off-season. But still, Jaskier and Geralt had an amazing time. They took long hikes. They got takeout and sat on the porch of their rental house, cocooned in blankets, and looked out at the semi-frozen lake. When Geralt accidentally let a door slam behind him, Jaskier didn’t flinch and he slept through the night without nightmares.

That was the weekend Geralt realized that he was in love with Jaskier. As he lay with Jaskier’s head buried in the crook of his neck, running his fingers up and down the smooth curve of his boyfriend’s back, he could only think that this was what it was like to be truly, marvellously happy. He’d spent the last few months wracked with guilt over what had nearly happened to Jaskier on his watch, but Jaskier was alive and he was here with Geralt. And Geralt would never let him end up in harm’s way again.

***

“He’s late.” Geralt hasn’t stopped pacing since he stepped into Yennefer’s shop. He stalks among shelves of delicate charms and colorful glass bottles, making Yennefer wince whenever his shoulders come a little too close to the merchandise for her liking.

Yennefer and Ciri exchange eye rolls. “Jaskier has to take the bus across the city in Friday night rush hour traffic,” Yennefer says. “Cut him some slack.”

“We have a twelve hour drive ahead, and that’s only if he doesn’t make me stop,” Geralt growls. He doesn’t voice the worry that Yennefer is sure is nagging at him--that Jaskier has changed his mind and isn’t coming.

Yennefer heaves a sigh. “Geralt, a word of advice.”

“Hm?” Geralt stops to examine a row of potions. Since they’re for easing the effects of menopause, Yennefer doesn’t think he’s actually looking at them.

“If you’re hoping to win your ex-boyfriend back, not letting him pee or eat for twelve hours isn’t the way to do it. Nor is bitching when he asks you to stop.”

Ciri chokes on a giggle.

Geralt gives them a wide-eyed look. “I’m not trying… I’m not… I don’t…”

“Do you still like Jaskier, Geralt?” Ciri leans her elbows against the counter, face bright with interest.

Geralt looks at Yennefer helplessly.

She takes pity on him. “If you were hoping to win him back, this weekend would be a great opportunity to prove to him that you deserve a second chance.”

“We’re just going to talk to Aridea Creyden, Yenn. This isn’t a vacation.”

Yennefer looks at the ceiling and asks any gods that might be listening for patience. “You’re spending a weekend away with Jaskier. It doesn’t matter why you’re doing it. You two haven’t been in the same room for more than a couple of hours at a time in months. This is a big deal.”

“If you guys get back together, will he move in with us?” Ciri asks. “That would be fun. I like Jaskier a lot.”

“We’re not getting back together,” Geralt mutters. “Jaskier doesn’t want that.”

The sad part, Yennefer thinks, is that he believes it. She’s about to verbally smack some sense into him when the shop door flies open and Jaskier comes barreling in with a comically large duffel bag flung over his shoulder and an enormous iced coffee in hand.

“Sorry, I’m here!” he says breathlessly. A row of complicated, expensive potions nearly meet their untimely end as he drops his duffel bag to the ground.

“Jaskier!” Ciri bounds out from behind the counter to give him a hug.

Jaskier laughs and returns her hug, looking surprised, but pleased. “Sorry, Geralt, the 85 bus never showed up, so I had to take the 47 to the 64, and you know the 64 is never on time.”

Geralt hasn’t moved or spoken since Jaskier entered the shop. like he’s afraid that Jaskier will run for the door if Geralt so much as looks at him wrong.

Oh, these beautiful, sweet idiots. Yennefer can’t wait to have a weekend with them out of her hair. “You two should get going if you want to make it to Corvo Bianco by dawn.”

Geralt looked between Yennefer and Ciri with a frown. “And you two will be alright?”

Yennefer would be annoyed, if she didn’t realize that Geralt is only trying to delay the reality of being stuck in a car with the ex he’s still in love with for an entire night. “We survive all the nights you go out on patrol. I’ve planned an exciting weekend of manicures, rom coms, and interrogating sorcerers about Project Lilit.”

“No one too dangerous?”

“Oh my gods, Geralt.” Ciri rolls her eyes. “Yennefer isn’t going to bring me near anyone dangerous.”

Yennefer smirks. “We’re having dinner with Vanielle and Coral tonight and brunch with Tissaia, Triss, and Sabrina in the morning. Between the five of them, they have contacts with every sorcerer worth knowing on the Continent. And in Tissaia’s case, many not worth knowing.” She decides not to bring up her dinner date with Istredd tomorrow night. Geralt’s head might explode.

Geralt nods. “Just be careful.”

Yennefer refrains from reminding him that she’s a sorceress and that she could kill him with a flick of her finger. She tosses him the keys to her car. “You too. And you bring Annika back without a single scratch, or there will be hell to pay, understand me?”

“Of course we will.” Jaskier grabs the keys out of Geralt’s hand. “I’m driving first.”

“A single scratch, and I know at least three spells that will make your manhood shrivel up and fall off, Jaskier,” Yennefer says.

He grins at her. “Only three, Yenn? I expected more from you.”

She snorts. “Be safe, you two.”

Geralt and Jaskier awkwardly look at each other for a moment. Geralt bends to retrieve Jaskier’s duffel bag.

“I got it,” Jaskier says, but Geralt is already on his way out the door with the bag. Jaskier turns to Yennefer with wide, beseeching eyes. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?”

Yennefer can’t stop the wicked smile from spreading across her face. “Someone needs to stay behind to keep Novigrad’s criminal underbelly safe from Ciri.”

“Surely Roach has that covered.”

“You could go with them, if you wanted to,” Ciri says slyly. “Roach and I would be fine.”

Yennefer shakes her head “I don’t think so, dearest. You’re stuck with me this weekend. Speaking of Roach, it’s her dinner time. Why don’t you go upstairs and feed her, Ciri?”

“Have fun!” Ciri gives Jaskier another hug, then jogs up the stairs to Yennefer’s apartment.

“I should go, before he leaves without me.” Jaskier starts towards the door.

“Jaskier?” Yennefer calls after him.

He holds up his hands in surrender. “I know how to drive, Yenn, I promise. Annika is in safe hands.”

“She better be. But that’s not it. Try not to fall into bed with Geralt as soon as you get to Corvo Bianco. Make him work for it.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops. “We’re not… I mean, I would never…”

“Of course you wouldn’t. Have a nice weekend, Jaskier.”

Face beet red, Jaskier scurries after Geralt. As soon as the door closes behind him, Yennefer announces to the empty room, “Oh, they are so fucked.”

***

Yennefer’s car, Annika, is a sleek little sports car, gorgeous and completely impractical. Jaskier has never been sure why Yennefer bothers keeping a car when she hardly ever leaves Novigrad, but given how often he and Geralt have borrowed it for weekends away, he can’t complain. The car is meant for a Yennefer-sized driver and Jaskier has to push the driver’s seat all the way back to be able to fit behind the wheel. In the passenger seat, Geralt looks miserable, hunched over so that his head doesn’t brush the ceiling. Normally, Jaskier would find it adorable. Today, he definitely does not. At all.

“You can turn on the radio, if you want,” Geralt says, thirty minutes into the drive.

“No, it’s fine.” Jaskier shrugs. “I know you don’t like the radio.”

“But you do.”

“Nah, I’m not in the mood for music,” Jaskier lies.

“Okay.”

There’s a long silence.

“We meet with Aridea Creyden tomorrow at one,” Jaskier says. “She thinks we’re doing a story on the charity she founded. Get this, they work on getting older kids who have been overlooked adopted.”

“Quite a cause for a woman who sold her stepdaughter to Stregobor.”

“I know, right? I can’t tell if she’s the least self-aware person in the universe, or if she feels guilty for what she did.” Jaskier shakes his head. “I figured we’d stop at a rest area around Sodden. You want to take over driving there? I was thinking if you switch every three hours, that breaks things up nicely.”

“Sure.”

Jaskier sighs. “Look, we’re about to spend two days together. It’s going to be incredibly awkward if we keep tiptoeing around each other. So for this weekend, let’s just pretend we’re not exes. We never dated. We’re just two colleagues who are working on a story together. And we’ve never seen each other naked.”

Geralt is quiet for a moment. “It’s hard for me to pretend I haven’t seen you naked.”

Melitele’s sweet tits. Jaskier feels his face flame. “Okay, and that’s an example of things we shouldn’t say this weekend.”

“Sorry,” Geralt mutters.

Jaskier doesn’t try to strike up any more conversations after that.

***

The sky has gone dark and the traffic on the roads has slowed to a trickle. Long drives at night normally wouldn’t bother Geralt; he can fall into an almost meditative state on nights like these. If it weren’t for the man in the passenger seat, he would be perfectly content. Jaskier has barely said a word to him in hours, even when they stopped at a rest area in Sodden and Geralt took over driving. Jaskier is currently pretending to be asleep. Geralt knows he’s faking, because Jaskier is never so still or so silent, not even when sleeping.

Geralt has never been one to be bothered by silence, but he can’t stand it anymore. “About the Ghoul...” He trails off with a wince. Why when he’s searching for a safe topic of conversation, does his brain immediately go to serial killers?

Jaskier sits up, rubbing his eyes. “He’s dead.”

“You hadn’t brought it up, so I wasn’t sure—”

“I just don’t know how I feel about it yet.” Jaskier shrugs. “I think this was Renfri’s way of apologizing for stabbing you. She was waiting in my apartment for me after dinner the other night.”

Geralt’s grip tightens on the steering wheel. “What did she want?”

“I think she wanted to see if I was still on her side,” Jaskier says.

“Are you?”

“I don’t know. I feel bad for her and I want to help her, but she almost killed you. That’s not something I can easily forgive. But when I told her that, it looks like she went straight to the prison to murder the Ghoul.”

“The Ghoul tried to kill you,” Geralt says. “You shouldn’t feel guilty for what happened to him.”

“I know. I’m trying not to.” Jaskier hesitates. “I keep forgetting that it was you there that night. You’re the one who saved me. I haven’t thanked you.”

“You have.”

“Kind of. I thanked the Witcher. Who I didn’t realize was you. Or maybe I did, on some level? It would explain why I was always so drawn to someone whose face I couldn’t even see.” Jaskier lets out a little laugh. “Fuck, this is confusing.”

“It is. I always had to be careful to keep conversations I’d had with you as Geralt separate from the ones I had with you as the Witcher.”

He braces himself for a biting comment about how he should have just told Jaskier the truth to resolve that problem, but Jaskier just laughs again, more genuine this time. “I had no clue. I don’t understand how I lived with you for a year and didn’t figure it out.”

“I’m good at keeping my Witcher life separate from my real life. Have lots of practice.”

“That has to get lonely though.”

“You get used to it.” Geralt smiles sadly, glad that the darkness inside the car hides his expression. “Do you want to stop to get something to eat?”

“Holy shit, Geralt, did blood loss get to your head? You’re volunteering to stop on a road trip?”

“Figured you’d be hungry.”

“Oh, I’m starving. I could eat six fast food cheeseburgers right now.”

Geralt grins to himself and pulls off the next exit.

***

Jaskier devours two cheeseburgers and a strawberry milkshake, while Geralt just gets himself a coffee. Geralt never eats on long drives, which Jaskier has always found insane. What’s the point of road trips, if not to provide an excuse to eat a ton of junk food? Jaskier is halfway through his second cheeseburger when he finally figures out what’s different about Geralt. It’s been nagging him since he got to Yennefer’s shop.

“You’re not wearing your glasses,” he says.

Geralt shrugs. “Don’t need them. I see fine without glasses.”

“So, what? You just wear them for the aesthetic?”

“They help with the persona,” Geralt says. “When I’m wearing the glasses, I’m Geralt. When I’m not, I’m the Witcher.”

“But you didn’t bring them this weekend?”

Geralt stares into his coffee. “I didn’t want a persona this weekend. I just wanted to be me.”

“I like you just being you,” Jaskier says without thinking.

A small smile curls the edges of Geralt’s lips. “Me too.”

***

“Are we there yet?” They’re eight hours into their drive and Jaskier’s voice is heavy with tiredness.

“I can take over driving, if you want,” Geralt says. The road is empty and dark ahead of them.

“No, I can handle another hour.” Jaskier scrubs at his face. “Why don’t they do street lights in this part of the Continent? Do they just like darkness?”

Instead of answering, Geralt turns on the radio.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jaskier says as Geralt flips through the stations, looking for one that’s not static.

“Got to keep you awake somehow. Yenn’s going to curse off your genitals if you crash this car.”

“Look at you, looking out for my genitals.”

Geralt nearly chokes on his own spit.

“Hey, it’s our song!” Jaskier says brightly as Geralt changes the channel again and an upbeat power ballad starts playing.

“How is this our song?”

“This is the song Essi and I sang the night you and I talked at that retirement party. The song you called a pie with no filling.”

“This can’t be our song. It’s terrible.”

“Oh, you know you love it, deep, deep down.”

“Not even a little.”

“Come on, Geralt, admit it.” Jaskier begins to shimmy his shoulders and sing along. Geralt turns down the music so he can hear. Jaskier has a warm, gorgeous singing voice; in another life, he could have been a singer. Geralt misses listening to Jaskier sing in the shower or hum to himself while making dinner.

“I know you know the words.” Jaskier pokes him in the arm.

Geralt’s fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and take his hand. “You’re not going to get me to sing, Jaskier.”

“I bet I can annoy you into singing.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Come on, you have to admit, this is a catchy song.”

Geralt glances over and sees Jaskier looking at him, smile wide and eyes shining. He looks so happy and relaxed that Geralt can’t help it. He begins to sing along. He’s awful; his voice is scratchy and out of tune, but Jaskier beams like Geralt is the best singer on the Continent. And Geralt realizes he will do whatever it takes to keep that expression on Jaskier’s face.

***

An hour later, after Geralt has taken over driving and Jaskier is curled up in the passenger seat, head resting against his balled up hoodie, he hears Geralt humming their song. Jaskier grins into his hoodie as he drifts off to sleep.

***

Jaskier is sound asleep when they reach Corvo Bianco. The horizon is just starting to turn pink, casting the interior of the car in a rosy glow. They can’t check into their hotel until that afternoon, so Geralt finds a lot to park in. Jaskier doesn’t stir. He looks peaceful in his sleep, with his mouth slightly open and his dark eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. Geralt wonders if the nightmares he used to wake up screaming from have gotten any better. He tries not to picture Jaskier waking up from a terrifying dream and finding himself alone, with no one to hold him until he can fall back asleep.

Geralt could wake him. He’s starving and he’s sure Jaskier will want something to eat before they go to talk to Aridea Creyden. But he can’t bring himself to disturb Jaskier, not when he has a little smile curling his lips, like he’s having a nice dream. So Geralt closes his eyes, leans back in his seat, and listens to Jaskier breathe.

***

“Stregobor.” Tissaia wrinkles her delicate nose. “I haven’t thought of that man in years.”

“I try not to think of him at all, if I could help it.” Triss slathers jam onto a scone. “When you called, Yenna, I thought you just wanted to catch up.”

“Of course I do,” Yennefer says. “But I also want to know what you’ve heard about human experimentation at Black Sun Industries.”

“A natural topic of conversation for brunch,” Sabrina murmurs from behind her mimosa.

Ciri looks around at the four sorceresses with wide eyes. Tissaia, Triss, and Sabrina are cut from the same cloth as Yennefer: poised, stunningly beautiful, and radiating the kind of power that no classroom can teach. Ciri thinks regretfully of the magic lesson she struggled through the night before. Yennefer can have her levitate as many rocks as she wants, but Ciri is never going to be a true sorceress.

“Human experimentation would be a new low, even for Stregobor,” Tissaia says. “But not entirely surprising. There’s a reason he no longer teaches at Ban Ard. He had a knack for pushing students past their limits. He even landed one boy in a coma.”

“What kind of experimentation are we talking about?” Triss asks.

Yennefer tells them all about Project Lilit and the Shrike, sparing no details. By the time the server brings Ciri’s plate of pancakes and bacon, she’s lost her appetite. She’s already heard this story multiple times, including at dinner with Yennefer’s friends Coral and Vanielle the night before, but it turns her stomach every time. All that death, and all of it completely pointless.

“And so he’s blackmailing Geralt?” Triss looks horrified.

Tissaia drums her fingernails against the tabletop. “I hadn’t heard anything about this Project Lilit. I take it none of the girls survived?”

“Only the Shrike,” Yennefer says.

“Enhancing magic like that would have had profound mental and physical side effects. It’s cruel.” Sabrina wrinkles her nose in disgust.

“Men like Stregobor always think they can take shortcuts to get what they want,” Tissaia says.

“So, none of you have heard anything about it before?” Yennefer asks.

All three sorceresses shake their head. Ciri sighs. It was the same with Vanielle and Coral. They knew Stregobor was a terrible person and had heard rumors, but they didn’t know anything concrete.

“I assure you, if I’d heard about this before, Stregobor would no longer be able to walk or talk of his own volition,” Tissaia says coolly. “Do you have proof?”

“Just the Shrike’s testimony right now. Jaskier and Geralt and working on getting more.”

“Good.” Tissaia nods. “If you’re going to go up against Stregobor, you’re going to need every bit of proof you can find. He has too many friends.”

“Trust me, I know. We’re doing what we can.”

“I don’t like this,” Triss says softly. “Yenna, bad things happen to people who piss off Stregobor. They vanish or they get maimed in a terrible accident or they got caught in a compromising situation and have their reputations ruined. You need to be careful.”

Yennefer’s lip curls. “I would like to see him try.” But her easy confidence doesn’t reach her eyes.

Ciri feels invisible. She knows it’s not the sorceresses’ intention--they’re focused on the problem of Stregobor and not her feelings. But it strikes Ciri how utterly useless she is. She can’t fight like Geralt. She’s not a powerful sorceress like Yennefer. She doesn’t have a way with words like Jaskier. She has her scream, but she can barely control that. The people she cares about are in danger, and Ciri doesn’t know what to do about it.

She pictures her house in Cintra burning to the ground with her grandparents’ bodies still inside it. She never saw the wreckage of the house or the corpses, but she doesn’t need to. She’s imagined their deaths so many times, each time more horrible than the last, that she doesn’t need to have witnessed it firsthand. She knows that they died terribly, at that there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Ciri isn’t going to let that happen again. She thinks of her grandmother’s lioness mask, tucked into a shoebox at the bottom of her closet. She’s already lost one family. Stregobor isn’t going to take another one from her.

***

Aridea Creyden’s high rise condo is entirely white. The walls, the tiled floors, the furniture, the delicate mugs Jaskier and Geralt sip coffee out of--all of it is blindingly white. The only colors in her home are the watercolor paintings of the ocean, which seem redundant, since the windows overlook a stunning view of the beach. Jaskier perches on the edge of the couch, very careful not to spill a drop of coffee. He feels stiff and uncomfortable, like he used to feel visiting his grandmother’s house. He’s terrified of getting fingerprints on all the white.

“Well, it’s just so nice that someone is taking an interest in Forgotten Angels,” Aridea Creyden says, settling into the seat across from Jaskier. If she notices Jaskier’s lips twitch at the saccharine name of her pet charity, she gives no indication. Aridea is just as colorless as her condo, with bobbed platinum blond hair, watery blue-gray eyes, and pearly white teeth. Even her dress is beige.

Jaskier forces his most charming smile. “Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice, Mrs. Creyden.”

“I’m just flattered that you came all the way from Novigrad for little old me. And please, call me Ari.” Aridea glances at Geralt, who isn’t exactly glowering at her, but isn’t doing much to hide his discomfort. Jaskier remembers that while Geralt’s mother didn’t sell him to Vesemir, she did abandon him in a park to have only gods know what done to him. Jaskier wonders if he should have had Geralt wait in the car. This might hit too close to home for him.

“Oh, you’re already out of coffee,” Aridea chirps. “Let me get you more, sweetie.” She plucks the mug out of Geralt’s unresisting hand and sashays into the kitchen.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Jaskier leans towards Geralt. “Maybe stop looking at her like she kicked Roach?”

“I’m not—”

“Geralt. I know your faces. I haven’t seen you look at anyone like that since that vet who said Roach should have been put down when she lost her leg.”

Geralt snorts. “She sold her toddler stepdaughter to Stregobor and now she thinks helping other children will make up for it.”

“I know.” Out of habit, Jaskier reaches to squeeze Geralt’s knee, then stops himself. Instead, he awkwardly pats Geralt’s thigh, which he belatedly realizes isn’t any better. “Don’t worry, when we take down Stregobor, there will be enough reckoning to go around. If this is too much for you, you could go wait in the car.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with her.”

“Oh, come on, Geralt, she’s maybe ninety pounds after having a big lunch. I think I can take her.”

“You can’t tell if someone is dangerous just by looking at them. She could have a weapon.”

“Here you are.” Aridea returns, her heels clicking against the tile. The coffee she hands Geralt looks like tea from all the milk she’s added.

“Thank you.” To his credit, Geralt doesn’t even wince when he takes a sip.

“Now, what can I do for you boys?” Aridea settles down on her loveseat across from them, crossing her legs. Jaskier notices that she’s pulled the neckline of her dress down and is studying Geralt out of the corner of her eye. He can’t really blame her, despite the fact that Geralt is a good twenty years her junior. Geralt looks good for someone operating on zero hours of sleep who got dressed in the bathroom of a hole in the wall diner this morning.

Jaskier begins with the softball questions. He’s good at putting his subjects at ease. Most of his interviews are with temperamental artist types, several who have been known to throw furniture at impertinent journalists. Often, there’s a PR rep in attendance, ready to whisk him out the door if any of his questions cross a line. So he lets Aridea blather on about how she got drawn into this line of work and how rewarding she finds it. He gets appropriately misty eyed when she discusses some of the adoptions she’s facilitated. He takes the fliers she hands him and looks at the charity’s website. It’s certainly a noble cause, even if he questions her motivations.

“Of course, as a parent myself, I understand how important family is,” Aridea says. “So did my late husband. The money he left me is what helped me found Forgotten Angels. I knew he would want me to do something special with it.”

And this is Jaskier’s opening. “How many children do you have?”

“Two sons, both a bit younger than you. The younger one studies at Oxenfurt. The older one has been backpacking through the Blue Mountains. Trying to find himself. You know how boys are.” She lets out a tinkling little laugh.

“Do either of them know about Renfri?” Maybe it’s not Jaskier’s most diplomatic change in topic, but they’ve been there for over an hour and he’s tired of dancing around the topic.

Aridea’s jaw drops. “Pardon me?”

“Your stepdaughter, Renfri,” Geralt says. It’s the first time he’s spoken during the interview. “Do your sons know that you sold her to Stregobor to be used as a human experiment? They’re so young they most likely don’t remember her. Do they know that they have a sister?”

“Is giving up Renfri what inspired you to help other children?” Jaskier asks, helping himself to a cookie off the plate on the coffee table.

Aridea manages to collect herself, drawing herself up to her full height. “I’m not… my family life isn’t relevant to this conversation.”

“No, I think it’s pretty relevant.” Jaskier leans forward with his most brilliant smile. “You see, Renfri has given us her side of the story, and now I’d really love to hear yours before my article goes to print.”

“Why would you be writing an article about Renfri?” Aridea’s mouth twists when she says the name.

“Because she’s the Shrike.”

Aridea shakes her head. “That’s impossible. Renfri died when she was fourteen. There was an accident at the lab.”

“You know that’s not true. Otherwise, you would have reacted when I said she told me her story.” Jaskier leans forward and gentles his tone. “Listen, I just want your side of the story. Renfri made you out to be a monster, but seeing all the children you’ve helped, I don’t think I believe that.”

“We’re after Stregobor,” Geralt adds. “You tell us what you know about Project Lilit, we can leave your name out of this entirely.”

Jaskier doesn’t know how he feels about that promise, but Aridea’s shoulders relax slightly. When she speaks, she does so directly to Geralt, like she thinks he may be the more sympathetic of the two. Jaskier is oddly flattered that she finds him more intimidating than Geralt. “Renfri was an impossible child. She had violent tantrums. Screaming, hitting, biting. We couldn’t keep a nanny for more than a month or two at a time. She never smiled or laughed, like normal babies do. There was always something wrong about her eyes. When we told her that I was pregnant with Peter, the way she looked at me, I knew she would hurt that baby as soon as he was born.”

“She was three,” Jaskier says. He thinks of Geralt sitting alone on a park bench when he was probably not much older than three, waiting patiently for a mother who would never come back for him.

“Some children are just born wrong.” Aridea shudders. “Stregobor was an old friend of my husband’s. When he approached us about helping him fund Project Lilit, it seemed like a good place for Renfri. My husband’s first wife came from a lineage of strong sorcerers, and it was likely that Renfri had inherited her gift. She was the perfect candidate. And Stregobor paid us handsomely for donating Renfri to him.”

“Did your husband know?”

Aridea glances down at her lap. “He didn’t understand the extent of Project Lilit. He thought Stregobor was founding a specialized boarding school. Which it was, in a way. The girls were well-educated. I visited once a year to make sure that she was being well taken care of. The tutors had excellent credentials. The food was healthy. Her sleeping quarters were comfortable. What else could a young girl want?”

Freedom. Family. To not be experimented on. But instead of saying that, Jaskier asks, “The lab where you visited Renfri, was it in Corvo Bianco?”

“No, it’s a few hours south of here, near Posada.”

“And what happened to it?”

“It’s been empty since the accident.”

Jaskier and Geralt exchange glances. “We’re going to need directions to that lab,” Jaskier says.

***

By the time they leave Aridea Creyden’s home, Geralt’s jaw hurts from how hard he’s been clenching it. They wrung every bit of information they could get out of Aridea, but it’s still not enough to definitively strike against Stregobor. The lab seems like a promising lead, but what are the chances they’ll find anything useful in a building that’s been abandoned for nine years? Geralt braces his hands against Annika’s hood and tries to think.

“You okay?” Jaskier lays a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Instinctively, Geralt leans against the touch, then remembers himself. He hasn’t done anything to deserve comfort from Jaskier. He straightens up, shrugging off Jaskier’s hand. “She doesn’t seem to realize what she did. She still thinks giving Renfri to Stregobor was justified.”

“People like that can always justify the selfish things they do,” Jaskier says. “You think she knows that all the other girls died?”

Geralt shakes his head. “She wouldn’t care if she did. She has her charitable endeavors to convince herself that she isn’t a shit person.”

Jaskier makes a disgusted noise. “You sure you’re okay? That really seemed to bother you.”

“I don’t like evil that can't be taken care of with a punch in the face.”

Jaskier grins. “I’m sure if we try hard enough, we can find you something to punch. If we leave now, we’ll make it to the old lab by nightfall. I doubt there are still any mad scientists lurking there, but we might get lucky.”

“The lab could be a waste of time,” Geralt says. “It’s been almost a decade.”

“It could be, but we’ll never know if we don’t try. Anyway, we’ve already driven twelve hours to get here. What’s another six hour round trip? We’re just going to need to stop for another iced coffee first.”

Despite the lingering desire to punch something, Geralt can’t help but smile. Even if this ends up being a wild goose chase, at least he has Jaskier with him.

***

“Wow, they’re really not trying to hide the fact that this is a creepy lab from the public, are they?” Jaskier asks hours later, staring up at the building in front of them. “If I walked by here, the first thing I would think is that evil experiments happened here. They may as well have heads impaled on spikes out front.”

The empty Project Lilit lab is in disrepair; several windows are broken, the grass is overgrown, and the chain-link fence surrounding it is partially collapsed. It’s clear that no one has been here in a long time. In the long shadows created by the dying sunlight, the building looks downright menacing. Jaskier feels a prickle of unease and turns to look at Geralt. He finds Geralt screwing the cap back on one of his bottles of potions. His eyes are already turning black and dark veins are starting to crawl down his face.

Jaskier forgets to breathe.

“It’s still me, Jask,” Geralt says in that low, gravelly voice.

Jaskier can’t stop staring. “I’ve never seen your face like this without the mask.”

“Why do you think I wear the mask?” Geralt looks away and Jaskier realizes that he misunderstands Jaskier’s reasons for gaping at him. He thinks Jaskier is horrified, when in reality, it’s taking everything Jaskier has not to climb Geralt like a tree right here, right now, creepy murder lab be damned.

Gently, Jaskier reaches out and traces a finger down one of the veins on Geralt’s face. He wonders how far down they go. Are they all over Geralt’s body? “Does it hurt?”

Geralt shivers under his touch. “No. Just looks gruesome.”

“Gods, Geralt, have you looked in a mirror lately? You look anything but gruesome.” Geralt’s lips are as chalk white as the rest of his skin. Jaskier can’t tear his eyes away from them. He wonders if Geralt’s lips will taste different under the effects of the potions.

Geralt clears his throat. “We should go in.”

“Oh, yeah, the scary lab.” Jaskier shakes his head and turns away. Fuck, he needs to focus. They’re here for a reason. “You don’t think anyone’s still here, right?”

“I doubt it. But places like this are prime spots for wraiths to form. Stay close.” Geralt looks at him with those alien black eyes. “Should I bother suggesting that you stay out here?”

“You should not.”

“It could be dangerous.”

“Good thing I’m here to protect you, then.”

Geralt’s lip twitches. “Just stay behind me and stay quiet.”

Jaskier doesn’t complain about staying behind Geralt as they make their way inside. The view is better back here. Geralt uses one of his signs to shatter one of the windows. Jaskier makes a mental note to find out what the different signs are called and what they do later. Geralt hauls himself through the window, then reaches back to help Jaskier clamber through. Jaskier tries not to dwell on the feeling of Geralt’s hands on his waist or how easily Geralt picks him up.

He’s not sure what he was expecting: bloodstains, strategically placed photographs of girls undergoing monstrous experiments, maybe a signed testimony from one of the test subjects stating that Stregobor was the one who kidnapped her. Instead, the room he and Geralt are standing in looks a lot like his high school chemistry lab. He checks the cabinets and finds them empty except for the occasional broken beaker.

“Looks like they may have cleared everything out when they closed up shop,” Jaskier says, heart sinking. They knew it was a possibility, but if they drove all this way and find nothing, it would be a waste of their entire afternoon.

“It’s a big building,” Geralt says. “Let’s keep looking.”

They go room to room, with Jaskier sticking close to Geralt’s side. In each room, from the labs to the offices, it’s the same story: dusty furniture and drawers and cabinets that have been totally cleaned out. As they go, Jaskier gets more and more discouraged. There has to be something. You can’t do all the things Black Sun Industries did, torture and kill dozens of children, and leave no trace.

And then they go into the basements and find the bedrooms. Each room is hardly the size of a closet, with a twin bed and a nightstand as the only furniture. None of them have any decorations or any indication of who slept in these beds, but Jaskier still takes pictures of each room. He and Geralt rifle through the sheets, check under the mattresses, and open the drawers of the nightstands, but all traces of the girls are gone. It’s like they didn’t even exist.

It’s not until Jaskier is walking out what feels like the hundredth room they’ve checked that Geralt says, “Wait.”

“What?” Jaskier asks, but Geralt is already lifting up the mattress. Jaskier comes closer and finally sees what his too-human eyes missed: a small slit in the side of the mattress. Geralt reaches in and pulls out a small book.

“What’s that?” Jaskier turns on his phone’s flashlight app and shines it on the book. The cover is pink, with glittery blue flowers. In tidy handwriting in the top corner, the initials ZAR are written.

Gently, Geralt flips through the pages. “It’s a diary. One of the girls must have kept it.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to demand more information, but Geralt stiffens and looks up at the ceiling.

“What’s wrong?” Jaskier whispers, just as he hears it: footsteps upstairs, followed by the sound of a door opening and closing.

“Someone’s here,” Geralt says in a low voice. “We need to hide. Now.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that this is a really mean way to end the chapter, but this was already way longer than I intended it to be. I hope you're all taking care of yourselves!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier have a close call at the Project Lilit lab while Ciri makes a new friend.

Small spaces never bothered Jaskier before the night the assassins broke into his and Geralt’s apartment. Planes, elevators, and closets had never fazed him. But then he spent hours kneeling on the floor of his pitch dark closet, listening to the men who were about to kill him talking and laughing among themselves. The closet was hot and stuffy and the shadows seemed to move around him. He kept imagining that the walls were moving closer. He desperately needed to get out, but knew what would happen the next time that door opened. The man in the helmet would ask Jaskier where Geralt was. Jaskier would refuse to answer. The man would shoot Jaskier in the head and Jaskier would be dead before his body hit the floor.

For weeks afterwards, he couldn’t get on an elevator without shaking so hard that he had to lean against the wall to stay upright. If a bus or train was too crowded, he would get off to take the next one. He backed out of his planned trip to Skellige with Essi and Shani because the thought of getting on a plane made him physically ill. The sudden claustrophobia eased eventually. After a couple of months, he could ride the elevator without feeling like he was going to pass out. Small, dark rooms still made him anxious, but his therapist assured him that was normal. Progress took time.

Someday, Jaskier would be back to normal. If he even remembered what normal was anymore.

***

The abandoned bedroom is a terrible hiding place; there’s not enough furniture. Forgetting his earlier self-consciousness about touching Jaskier, Geralt grabs Jaskier’s hand and hauls him out of the room. There’s a maintenance closet across the hall. Geralt uses Aard to blast the lock off the door and pulls Jackier inside. The closet is barely big enough for the two of them, but it will have to do. He closes the door behind him and takes another half dose of potion, wincing at the burn.

“Hopefully they won’t check in here,” he says in a low voice.”We should be safe--Jaskier?”

In the darkness, he can see that Jaskier’s face has gone milky white.

“What’s wrong?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier’s Adam’s apple bobs. “I don’t really like small spaces.”

“Since when?”

Jaskier shoots him an incredulous look and Geralt immediately feels like a giant moron. The footsteps are now directly above them; there’s no time to seek out another hiding place. “Try to think about a wide open field or something.”

Jaskier scoffs. “Thank you, Geralt, my PTSD has been cured by picturing some grass.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine.” Jaskier winces. “I’m fine. I just need… fuck, it’s dark in here.”

Geralt looks around. “You’re not missing much of a view. Just an old bucket and a mop.”

Jaskier’s breathing is growing more rapid. “Who do you think it is? Do you think it’s a wraith?”

“Wraiths don’t have footsteps.” Geralt tries to keep his voice low and soothing.

“Then what? The police? Maybe we tripped an alarm.”

“Could be the police or a security guard. Could just be someone looking for a place to sleep or get high.” Those are the safest options Geralt can think of. He tries not to dwell on what kind of people a man like Stregobor could employ to keep Project Lilit under wraps.

But it seems like Jaskier’s thoughts have already jumped there. “Or it could be an assassin here to kill us.”

“Could be.”

Jaskier sags against the wall. “Fuck.”

“What can I do?” Geralt is worried that Jaskier will pass out.

“I don’t know.”

The footsteps are on the stairs now. Jaskier’s breathing is so audible, anyone walking by the closet will hear them. Geralt doesn’t think--he takes Jaskier’s wrists and pulls him close, looping one arm around Jaskier’s waist and using his other hand to cup the back of Jaskier’s neck. He expects Jaskier to flinch away, but Jaskier leans into the embrace, muffling his hyperventilating against Geralt’s shoulder.

“Focus on me,” Geralt whispers. “Close your eyes and try to forget everything else. Just focus on the fact that I’m here. Nothing will touch you while I’m with you.”

Jaskier lets out a long, slow breath. “Okay.”

Geralt shifts so that he’s directly between Jaskier and the door and places his hand on the hilt of the knife in his belt. He doesn’t draw it; if it is a police officer or a security guard approaching, that would be a good way to get him and Jaskier shot. Jaskier digs his fingers into Geralt’s shoulders as the footsteps draw closer. His breathing has gone shallow. Geralt wants to tell him that everything will be okay, but the footsteps are too close. He holds Jaskier tighter as the person walks past. Their steps slow, and for a moment Geralt thinks they’ve been discovered, but then the person keeps going. Geralt listens as the person walks to the end of the hallway, turns around, and heads back upstairs.

Jaskier sags against him. “Fuck. Let’s get out of here.”

“We should give it a couple of minutes.” Now that the danger isn’t immediate, Geralt allows himself to notice how good Jaskier feels pressed against him. Their bodies still fit together perfectly. Geralt can feel the thrum of Jaskier’s heartbeat against his chest and feel the tickle of Jaskier’s breath on his neck. Of its own accord, his body begins to react to the closeness. He tries to shift so that his inconvenient boner isn’t pressed up against Jaskier’s hip, but it’s too late. Jaskier looks up at him with wide eyes.

“Seriously?” he hisses. “Right now?”

“Can’t really control it,” Geralt says through gritted teeth.

“Why don’t you try thinking of a wide open field or something?”

Geralt snorts. He probably deserves that. Okay, he definitely deserves that. He feels a familiar press against his thigh and can’t stop himself from grinning. “Seriously? Right now?”

“Look, we’re no longer in mortal danger. You can’t expect me not to react when I have all this—” Jaskier gestures to Geralt. “--Pressed up against me.”

“Hm.” Geralt tries to focus on the noises of the building around them. All he can hear is the thundering of Jaskier’s heartbeat and the rasp of his breathing. “I think they’re gone. We should go.”

Jaskier almost looks disappointed. “Okay. Do you have the diary?”

“Here.” Geralt pats his pocket.

“It’s better than nothing.”

“It has to be. It’s not safe to stay here.” For all Geralt knows, the other person in the lab may have realized they were here and could be on their way to get backup. “Come on.”

He takes Jaskier’s arm to steer him out of the closet. Without the aid of their flashlight apps, it’s pitch black in the lab and he doesn’t want to risk Jaskier falling and breaking a leg. As soon as they get outside, he releases Jaskier.

“You okay?” he asks Jaskier.

Jaskier doubles over, bracing his hands on his knees. “Holy fuck, that was a lot. Maybe investigative journalism isn’t for me. There’s a lot less hiding in closets when I’m writing music reviews.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before—” Geralt breaks off when he hears a twig snap nearby, then another.

The grin falls off Jaskier’s face. “What is it?”

Geralt hands him the keys to the car and the diary. “Get to the car.”

“What?” Jaskier’s eyes widen.

“Get to the car and lock the doors. If I’m not there in ten minutes, drive away. If you see anyone who isn’t me coming towards you, drive away.”

“Geralt, I’m not leaving you.”

Geralt can see a figure rounding the side of the building. He can’t see the person’s face, but he knows in his bones that this isn’t some bumbling security guard. This person means them harm. “Jaskier, please.”

Jaskier takes a stumbling step backwards, then stops. “No, are you fucking kidding me? I can’t just—”

Geralt feels the spell coming at them and just has time to cast Quen to deflect it. The magic ricochets of the shield, leaving a patch of dead grass in front of Geralt. A killing spell. The sorcerer is coming closer. They have a hood pulled down low over their face, obscuring their features, but Geralt can see that they’re shorter than him, and slighter. Male, he thinks. The sorcerer raises his hand to cast another spell.

Geralt yanks the knife from his belt and hurls it. The blade strikes true, burying itself in their attacker’s shoulder. The man shouts in pain. Were Jaskier not behind him, Geralt would attack. He would do what he needed to do to finish this fight. But Jaskier is too close to the danger and too vulnerable, with no weapons except the car keys clenched between his shaking fingers. So Geralt does the only thing he can do--he grabs Jaskier by the hand and runs.

They sprint away from the lab. Geralt knows he’s running too fast for Jaskier; he can hear Jaskier’s labored breathing and feel the way his hand jerks in Geralt’s every time he stumbles and nearly falls. But all Geralt can think about is getting Jaskier somewhere safe. They find Annika, parked on the side of a back road where they left her. Geralt dives into the passenger seat. For the first time, he looks back and sees the sorcerer coming towards them, hands raised.

“Drive!” he shouts at Jaskier.

For once, Jaskier listens. They peel away, tires squealing.

“Shit,” Jaskier whispers. “Shit, fuck, shit. What the hell was that?”

Adrenaline and potions are still coursing through Geralt’s bloodstream, leaving him light-headed. “I was about to ask you the same question.”

“Geralt, of the two of us, you’re way more likely to know the person who just tried to kill us.”

“Why didn’t you run when I told you to?”

“Oh fucking fuck, Geralt, do you really want to get into this right now?” Jaskier demands. “Someone was trying to kill you. I wasn’t going to leave you.”

“They were trying to kill both of us.”

“So, I was just supposed to run away and save myself? Would you have left me?”

“That’s different.”

“Imagine some alternate world where I was the one with the superpowers, and you were just an ordinary, albeit unusually clever and charming, reporter. Would you have walked away while I was in danger?”

Geralt has made a promise to himself that he won’t lie to Jaskier ever again, so he says nothing.

Jaskier lets out a humorless chuckle. “Geralt, there is no universe where you’re in danger and I walk in the other direction. I don’t give a flying fuck that you’re bigger and stronger than me. I lo--I still care a lot about you.”

Geralt’s heart rate nearly slows to a near stop under the effects of the potion, but it feels like it’s hammering in his chest right now. “It would have been better if you ran. You were in the way. I couldn’t fight him when you were that close.”

Jaskier is silent for a moment. “Okay, Geralt, fine. You win.”

“Jaskier—”

Jaskier turns on the radio and turns it up high enough that they’d have to shout to hear each other. Geralt knows when he’s being told to shut up, so he sits in silence for the rest of the drive, keeping an eye to make sure no shadowy figures appear in the rearview mirror.

***

Ciri is curled up on the couch with Roach when Yennefer emerges from her bedroom in a cloud of lilac and gooseberry scented perfume. Ciri blinks. Yennefer looks nothing like herself. For one, she’s wearing a crimson dress instead of her normal black or gray. Before this, the brightest color Ciri has ever seen her in was navy blue. Her eye makeup is lighter than usual. Her hair is elaborately curled. She looks gorgeous, because Yennefer always looks gorgeous, but it’s like another Yennefer has stepped out of the room.

Yennefer looks over and smiles. “This used to be Istredd’s favorite dress.”

“You look nice,” Ciri tells her. “Does Geralt know you’re meeting up with Istredd? You didn't mention it to him yesterday.”

Yennefer shrugs. “I didn’t think he needed to know. He would just tell me it was too dangerous.”

“But you can take care of yourself.”

“Of course I can, sweetling. But you know how Geralt is. When he loves someone, he doesn’t know how to not be protective of them. He knows I could kick his ass in my sleep, and Istredd’s for that matter, but he’s still going to fret because that’s what he does. Sometimes, it’s better to tell him things after the fact and let him melt down over all the terrible things that could have happened.”

See, when Ciri tries to exercise that kind of logic, she gets grounded and has her phone taken away. It’s not fair. “What time will you be home?” she asks.

“I’m not sure. Probably not until late. Don’t wait up.” Yennefer fixes her with a flat look. “Now, I’m trusting you by leaving you alone. Don’t abuse that trust.”

Ciri feels her face heat up. “Afraid I’m going to invite boys over for a wild party?”

“You know what I’m afraid of. Remember, me teaching you magic was a compromise. If I catch you sneaking out, those lessons end.”

“Okay, fine.” Ciri stretches lazily. “Bring me home some dessert?”

“Chocolate cake?”

“Duh.”

Yennefer’s lips twitch. “Fine. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

She leaves, brushing a kiss on the top of Ciri’s head before she goes, and Ciri settles down to watch some television. Or, she tries to watch some television. She reads a chapter of a book, then gives up. She heats up her leftovers from last night’s dinner. She plays fetch with Roach until the dog collapses on her feet, sound asleep. She texts Martin, a friend of hers from Cintra, but doesn’t hear back from him. She tries levitating a rock, which Yenn would probably be pissed about, but only gives herself a headache.

She tries not to think about what’s happening right now, about how Geralt and Jaskier are across the Continent gathering information and Yennefer is out to dinner with her possibly-evil ex, and Ciri is sitting at home, waiting for a piece of chocolate cake. The earlier helplessness she felt at brunch seems to return tenfold. She’s not a powerful sorceress or a hardened vigilante, but she knows how to fight. She can throw a punch with the best of them. And she has a scream that can level buildings (even if it’s not always the building she intended to level.) Why is she the one being benched? Why won’t they even try to find a way to let her help?

Ciri can’t sit in this apartment any longer, she realizes. She can’t pretend to care about any of the stupid things on TV or the boring book she has to read for school. She has to go out there and do something. She has to help. Geralt and Yennefer would be furious if they knew she was even contemplating sneaking out, but they don’t have to know, right?

Ciri just needs to not get caught.

***

Istredd is already waiting for Yennefer when she portals to the restaurant, even though she’s early. He’s grown a beard since the last time she saw him and it suits him. When he sees her, he smiles warmly and stands to kiss her on both cheeks.

“Yenna,” he says. “It’s been too long.”

“How are you, Istredd?” She lets him pull out a chair for her.

“Doing well. You? How’s the shop?”

“It’s doing great.” _No thanks to you, you bastard._

“You look amazing.” He looks her up and down.

She smiles thinly. She hates this dress--it reminds her too much of the days when she was so desperate to be accepted for herself, that she became an entirely different person. “As do you. The beard suits you.”

“Thank you, I’m trying something new.” He strokes a hand over his chin. “I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered us some oysters as an appetizer, and a bottle of wine.”

Yennefer hides her wince behind her menu. Istredd has terrible taste in wine. “I don’t mind at all.”

They make polite chit chat while they eat oysters and sip a frankly appalling white wine. They exchange harmless anecdotes about their jobs and gossip about old mutual friends from their school days. Yennefer is sure that Istredd suspects her reasoning for inviting him to dinner, but they politely dance around the topic of Black Sun Industries, Stregobor, and Project Lilit. They order their entrees and a second bottle of wine, a red selected by Yennefer this time.

“What’s it like, working for Stregobor?” Yennefer asks at the conclusion of Istredd’s goofy story about two of his coworkers and their ongoing feud over proper microwave etiquette.

Istredd smiles. “He’s a brilliant man.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“I’ve learned things working for him that I never dreamed of at Ban Ard. I’m lucky to have this opportunity.” Istredd eyes her. “We’re always looking for fresh talent, Yenna. There are two job openings in my department.”

“I have my own business.”

“The life of a small business owner is a precarious one.”

 _Yes, your boss has made sure of that._ “But I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I’ve poured my heart and soul into that shop.”

“You have plenty of heart and soul to go around, I think. Let me know if you ever change your mind.”

The arrival of her salmon and Istredd’s steak spares Yennefer from needing to answer.

“Yenna, I can’t emphasize how nice it is to see you,” Istredd says. “Now, why don’t you tell me why you got in touch after all this time?”

Yennefer smiles around her forkful of salmon. “I think you know why.”

“You’ve been talking to Geralt?”

“He’s my closest friend.”

Istredd wrinkles his nose. “I always warned you he would hold you back.”

“And I always told you I didn’t give a shit about your opinion on the matter.”

To her surprise, Istredd throws his head back and laughs. “And there’s the Yenna I know. You’ve been so diplomatic all night, I thought I was dealing with a doppler.”

Fuck, Yennefer has overplayed her hand. She decides to drop the pretense. “How did Stregobor find out that I’m part-elf, Istredd?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t think it was a secret. You shouldn’t be ashamed of your heritage.”

“Of course I’m not ashamed. But I don’t go looking for scandal where I don’t need to. How did he find out?”

“I told him. I didn’t realize it would be a problem. I never took you for the type to hide who you really are.”

Oh, this condescending fuck. “I never took you for the type to work for someone who experiments on little girls.”

“That’s a gross simplification of what happened.”

Yennefer snorts. “Then give me the complex version, by all means.”

“Sometimes, sacrifices need to be made in the name of progress.”

“And Renfri Creyden was one of those sacrifices?”

“You sound just like the Witcher.”

“Thank you,” Yennefer says. “Istredd, I’ve known you for a long time. You’re not the type of person to sit by and let terrible things happen. And Project Lilit was monstrous. So what happened to you? Is it the money? Is it the power? Or have I totally misread you, and you actually like watching children suffer?”

“Project Lilit happened before my time. I never would have…”

“So if Stregobor asked you to start up again tomorrow, you would say no?”

Istredd looks down at the tablecloth. “I would do things differently. More ethically.”

“Unbelievable.” Yennefer shakes her head.

“What was your plan, Yennefer? To interrogate me about Project Lilit? Did you think I’d tell you all about my employer just because you showed up in my favorite dress and a pair of fuck-me heels?”

It’s so, so tempting to slap him. “I don’t know. I thought maybe I’d appeal to your better nature. I see it’s not there anymore.” She stands to leave.

Istredd’s arm shoots out and grabs her wrist. “Your Witcher is being an idiot, going up against Stregobor like this. You don’t want to go down with him.”

Yennefer yanks her wrist away. “Is that a threat?”

“I just want you to think about this. Stregobor will take everything from you. Your shop, your home, your reputation. Don’t you think it’s time you become your own woman? Stop following the Witcher around?”

“If you think I’m not already my own woman, you’re stupider than I thought.” Yennefer rises to her feet.

Istredd sneers, clearly taking her departure as a victory for him. “Next time you see him, remind him that he only has until the end of the month. That’s only a week away.”

Yennefer doesn’t grace him with an answer. She decides to walk home instead of taking a portal; she needs some time to cool off before she gets back to Ciri. If she arrives home in this towering of a temper, she’ll probably snap at Ciri and start an argument that she doesn’t want or need. Halfway home, she remembers the piece of cake she promised Ciri and takes a detour to a bakery to grab two enormous slices of chocolate cake with raspberry drizzle. By the time she gets home, the fresh air and the promise of cake has cooled her temper considerably. It was still a waste of an evening, but hopefully Geralt and Jaskier are being more successful in Corvo Bianco.

When she pushes open the door, Roach throws herself at Yennefer. Yennefer has to dodge out of the way to save the cake. Obligingly, she scratches the dog behind the ears. “Why aren’t you in with Ciri, you stinker?”

Roach only whines in response.

Yennefer goes to the guest room and taps on the door. It’s still early enough that Ciri probably isn’t asleep. “Ciri, I brought the promised cake.”

No reply.

Yennefer knows what she’s going to see when she pushes the door open. Fuck, she shouldn’t have left Ciri alone, but she thought that they’d made so much progress since the last time Ciri snuck out. But sure enough, Ciri’s bed is empty and the window is ajar.

Some days, Yennefer really, really wants to curse someone.

***

It takes a lot to surprise Renfri. She’s always considered herself unflappable; she has to be, given her chosen career path. So when she hears shouts from behind a seedy bar downtown, she has a good idea what to expect when she rounds the corner. Three grown men, surrounding a five foot nothing teenage girl who is definitely too young to be hanging out at bars. Renfri has seen some version of this scene a thousand times.

What’s new is the fact that the girl is holding her own admirably against the three men. She’s outmatched. Her punches have good form, but not enough power behind them and she only seems to be able to focus on one opponent at a time. Normally, Renfri would already have swooped in and impaled the three bastards, but she’s impressed enough by the girl’s sheer balls to hang back. Most girls would crumple in this situation, but this one almost looks like she’s enjoying herself. There’s a feral glint in her eye that reminds Renfri more than a little of herself.

The girl screams and the two men standing directly in front of her stumble backwards as if they’ve been punched in the stomach. Renfri’s eyebrows shoot up. Now, that was really unexpected.

Then the third man grabs the girl by her long blond hair and throws her to the ground. Renfri’s amusement vanishes. The man is drawing back his foot to kick the girl in the face when Renfri comes up behind him and puts her pike through his abdomen. He makes a choked noise and falls. One of his companions comes at her and Renfri jerks her pike out of the corpse and smashes it into his head once, twice, three times, until his skull caves in. The third one flees before Renfri can finish with his companions. She doesn’t bother giving chase. Hopefully he learned a valuable lesson about cornering girls behind bars.

Renfri looks up from her handiwork and finds the girl watching her with a guarded gaze. “You’re the Shrike,” the girl says.

“I am.” Renfri wipes her bloody pike clean on the dead man’s clothes. “And you must be the Lioness’s cub.”

“You knew my grandmother?”

“Never got the pleasure. Recognized the powers though. That was an impressive trick. You can really hold your own in a fight.”

The girl’s expression warms for an instant, before hardening. “You nearly killed Geralt.”

Renfri blinks at her. “Who is Geralt?”

“You stabbed him and pushed him off a building!”

“Sweetheart, that doesn’t narrow it down much,” Renfri says. “Wait, are we talking about the Witcher? The Witcher’s name is Geralt?”

The girl seems to realize that she’s made a mistake, because her face loses all its color. Renfri realizes she’s going to lunge well before she does, and already has her pike up in defense. The girl comes at her with fists flying. Renfri dodges and blocks her, but doesn’t strike back. She may be a killer, but she has a code, and that code doesn’t include hitting teenage girls. Even when those teenage girls are trying to kill her.

“You and Geralt must be close,” Renfri says. “You share an inability to say thank you.”

“What does he have to thank you for? You almost killed him!”

“One time. The first time, I spared him!”

“You put Jaskier in danger!”

“And I’ve apologized for that.” Renfri ducks a blow that comes at her face. “Would you like some feedback on your technique?”

“Oh, screw you.” The girl screams in her face. The magic does nothing to Renfri, but she can feel it around her. The dumpster behind her skids several feet across the concrete.

Renfri blinks. “That’s a neat party trick.”

The girl lunges at her again and Renfri uses the pike to push her back. The girl stumbles against the wall just as a portal opens and a dark-haired woman in a red dress steps through.

The girl’s eyes widen. “Yennefer!”

“Ciri, what the fuck were you thinking?” Yennefer looks between Ciri and Renfri, taking in Ciri’s disheveled appearance and the pike in Renfri’s hand, and her face twists into a snarl. She raises her hand and sends a wave of magic at Renfri. The brick wall behind Renfri cracks. The sorceress advances on her, throwing spell after spell, but Renfri remains unaffected.

“Cute,” Renfri says when the barrage of killing spells is over. “But didn’t anyone tell you? I’m immune to magic.”

Yennefer smiles. She doesn’t look scared. “But are you immune to this?”

It’s only then that Renfri feels the tell-tale prick of a blade against her side, poised to puncture her kidney. Her eyes widen in surprise. The witch pulled a knife on her, and she didn’t even notice.

“So, this is how you’re getting your revenge now?” Yennefer hisses. She’s standing very close to Renfri, smelling sweet and flowery. “Attacking little girls?”

“I didn’t attack her.” Renfri could probably disarm her. She has the physical advantage here, and she’s been threatened with larger knives. “I saved her from three men and then she attacked me because I almost killed someone named Geralt. I didn’t expect the Witcher to have such an old man name.”

Yennefer casts Ciri a venomous look. “Have I mentioned that you’re grounded? Because you’re grounded.”

“I was just trying to—”

“I don’t care what you were trying to do!” Yennefer turns her attention back to Renfri, who hasn’t moved. The sorceress has enormous violet eyes. “You’re going to let Ciri and I portal out of here. You’re not going to follow us.”

“You sorcerers really struggle with the ‘immune to magic’ concept. I couldn’t follow you if I tried. I’d walk through the portal and run into the wall behind it.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word on that.” Yennefer takes a step backwards, knife still raised. A portal opens up behind her. “Ciri, get in the portal.”

“But Yenn—”

“Don’t test me right now.”

Renfri smirks. “Tell Geralt and Jaskier I say hi.”

Yennefer jerks her wrist and Renfri almost doesn’t dive out of the way in time when the dumpster comes hurtling towards her. By the time she regains her footing and looks around, Yennefer and Ciri are gone.

***

By the time they get to their hotel, every inch of Jaskier aches. He’s spent eighteen hours in a car since last night. He hasn’t showered in a day and a half and he’s pretty sure he smells. He’s exhausted and hurt and trying not to show Geralt either of those things. So when they walk into their hotel room and find only one king sized bed, it seems like just another heaping pile on the shit sandwich that has been this day.

“Fuck,” Geralt growls. “There were supposed to be two beds.”

“Well, there’s only one,” Jaskier says flatly. Normally, he would be able to find humor in this situation, but this is the first time they’ve spoken since Geralt told him that he only got in the way at the lab.

“I’ll go talk to the front desk.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jaskier throws down his bag. “It’s almost midnight. I just need to shower and go to sleep. It’s a king sized bed. We won’t even notice each other.”

Geralt looks doubtful. “You’re sure?”

“No, but I’m too tired to give a damn right now.” Jaskier shakes his head. “I’m going to go shower.”

Geralt doesn’t reply.

Jaskier stands under the stream of hot water for a long time, letting the emotional roller coaster of the last few hours wash over him. He felt so safe pressed up against Geralt in the closet, despite the mysterious person lurking outside and his fear of small spaces. It was wonderful being held by Geralt again. It almost felt like how things used to be between them. But then Geralt had to go and ruin all those warm and fuzzy feelings by being a massive dick.

_“You were in the way. I couldn’t fight him when you were that close.”_

Jaskier thought this road trip was going well. He was having fun, despite the occasional bouts of terror. He was starting to let his guard down. And then Geralt had to go and wreck it, because that’s what Geralt does, apparently.

Gods, when is Jaskier going to stop being an idiot over this man?

He remembers the feeling of Geralt’s arms wrapped around him in the closet, having his face pressed against Geralt’s shoulder. Probably never, he has to admit to himself.

He gets out of the shower and changes into pajamas. As soon as he emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, Geralt goes to shower. Jaskier contemplates flipping through the diary they liberated from the lab, but he’s too tired right now to concentrate. He regards the king-sized bed. He could make a pillow barrier to keep him and Geralt from accidentally touching during the night, but that just seems petty. With a sigh, Jaskier turns off the light and climbs into bed. Hopefully, he’ll be asleep by the time Geralt emerges from the shower.

Geralt is in the shower for what feels like forever, but Jaskier is still wide awake when he comes out of the bathroom. Jaskier stays very still, hoping Geralt will think he’s asleep. He tries not to think about the fact that Geralt usually only sleeps in his underwear. He’s probably only wearing a pair of boxer briefs right now. Jaskier is pissed at Geralt, but his traitorous body apparently didn’t get the memo, because heat pools in his belly as Geralt slips into bed next to him.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt says in a low voice.

Jaskier keeps his back turned to him. “For what?”

“If I give you the whole list, we might need to stay here another night.” When Jaskier doesn’t react, Geralt lets out a long breath. “I’m sorry for everything. Starting with not telling you who I was, and up until what I said at the lab. I was panicking because you were in danger, but I shouldn’t have spoken like that to you. I’m sorry.”

“Did it occur to you that maybe I was also panicking because you were in danger?”

“That was nothing for me. I’ve faced worse than that.”

Jaskier turns to face him. In the darkness, he can only see the outline of Geralt. “Yeah, but I didn’t know who you were then. There’s a difference between watching some faceless badass taking on bad guys and seeing you in danger.” When the sorcerer cast that spell, Jaskier didn’t see the Witcher in its path. All he saw was sweet, quiet Geralt with the dry sense of humor and the massive soft spot for his dog. It was the most terrifying moment of Jaskier’s life.

“Do you understand how I feel when you’re in danger then?” Geralt asks quietly. “Especially when I’m the one who put you there?”

There’s so much emotion in his voice that it puts a lump in Jaskier’s throat.

“That night with Cahir, I thought you were dead,” Geralt continues. “I came home to find his men in our apartment, and I was sure that they’d killed you. He never took prisoners. I could smell blood, but I didn’t see you. I’d already lost Calanthe and Eist, and I thought I had lost you too.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell me?”

“I’d known Calanthe since I was a boy. I was at her wedding to Eist. I grew up with her daughter, Pavetta. She wouldn’t have given up my identity easily and neither would Eist. They died horribly because of me. I couldn’t let that happen to you.”

Jaskier props himself up on his elbows. “Geralt, that wasn’t your fault. You’re not the one who tortured and killed them. Cahir was a crazy bastard. You saved me that night, along with all the other people he would have hurt.”

“Hm.” Geralt’s grunt sounds skeptical.

“I just wish you had told me,” Jaskier says. “I wish this was something we could have done together, instead of something you had to sneak out in the middle of the night to do on your own.We were partners in everything else. Why couldn’t we have been partners in this?”

Geralt is quiet for a long moment and Jaskier thinks that he’s ruined whatever contemplative spell briefly overtook his ex-boyfriend. Frustrated, he lets his head fall to the pillow.

“I didn’t tell you because you were the one thing in my life not touched by the Witcher,” Geralt says finally. “I would go out on patrol and I would see the dregs of humanity. Murderers, rapists, thieves. And then I would come home and you would be there. And you were always happy to see me. You were never scared of me. And it was perfect. I was alone for so long. I thought I had to be alone, until I met you.”

Jaskier is glad it’s dark so Geralt can’t see the brightness in his eyes.

“And it was selfish. I know it was selfish. I should have told you years ago. If I could do it again, I would tell you as soon as I realized how I felt about you. But it was nice to have one person who just saw me as Geralt, not the Witcher. Who only ever wanted me to be Geralt. I lied to you about who I really am, Jaskier, but I was more myself with you than I’ve been with anyone else in my life.”

Jaskier lets out a wet little laugh. “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that. It makes it really hard to be mad at you.”

“Fuck, you’re crying.” Geralt’s thumb brushes over Jaskier’s cheek, wiping away the tears. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“It’s okay. It’s a good kind of crying.”

“It’s never a good kind of crying when you’re the one doing it.” Tentatively, Geralt places an arm around Jaskier. “Is this okay?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier says and Geralt pulls him close. Jaskier lets himself lean into the embrace. Geralt’s arms feel warm and familiar around him. He smells like the hotel’s lemon-scented shampoo and the chamomile body lotion he favors. Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut and rests his cheek against Geralt’s shoulder, soothed by the rise and fall of Geralt’s chest.

“I don’t think I can be angry at you anymore,” he tells Geralt. “I don’t know if I forgive you yet, but I’m done being angry. It’s exhausting being this mad at someone all the time.”

“I’m going to do my best to make it up to you.” Geralt’s fingers stroke soothing circles on his back.

Jaskier smiles against his neck. “We’re really bad at pretending just to be colleagues.”

“We already knew that.”

They fall asleep like that, with Jaskier curled up against Geralt and Geralt’s arms around him. It’s the best night’s sleep Jaskier has had in months.

***


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their way back to Novigrad, Geralt and Jaskier find themselves pursued by a murderous sorcerer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that I'm posting this so much later in the day than usual! Google Docs ate the last scene of this chapter somehow, so I had to rewrite it.

When Geralt wakes up the next morning, he’s lying on his side with Jaskier pressed up against his back. One of Jaskier’s arms is thrown around his waist and Geralt can feel the flutter of Jaskier’s breath on the back of his neck. It’s a familiar position; this is how he woke up most mornings for nearly two years. Geralt lets himself lie there with his eyes closed for a few minutes, enjoying the warm weight of Jaskier’s body behind him. They planned on leaving at dawn and if the bright light seeping through the curtains is any indication, that was hours ago, but Geralt doesn’t care. It’s hard to care about anything except Jaskier right now.

Last night wasn’t a reconciliation, he keeps telling himself. He doesn’t want to get his hopes up. They aren’t back together. They didn’t sleep together. They didn’t even kiss, though Geralt was close to kissing him before he realized Jaskier was crying. But somehow, falling asleep wrapped in each other’s arms, with Jaskier’s tears drying against his shoulder, feels as intimate as a night of enthusiastic makeup sex.

His phone blinks and Geralt reaches for it, careful not to jostle Jaskier. It’s a text from Yennefer. _“Call me when you wake up.”_

The message was sent at 2 AM, well past when Yennefer would normally be asleep. Feeling a spike of dread, Geralt slips out of bed and goes into the bathroom to call her.

“Took you long enough,” Yennefer says by way of greeting. “It’s after eight, Geralt. That’s like sleeping all day for you.”

“Sorry. Late night.” Realizing how that sounds, his ears burn. “Not like that.”

“Of course not.” Her voice dips teasingly. “How was sharing a room with Jaskier?”

“The hotel screwed up. There was only one bed.” A sudden thought occurs to Geralt. “Did you fuck with my room reservation, Yennefer?”

“Please. Do you think I would waste time sabotaging your room reservation? There could have been twenty beds in that room, and you and Jaskier would have ended up in the same one. Did you sleep together?”

Now Geralt is really blushing. He’s never been a blusher; he’s not sure why his body is starting now. “No.”

“Oh, good. I told him to make you work for it. I’m glad he listened, for once.”

Geralt leans his head against the door. “What do you want, Yenn?”

“Ciri snuck out last night and ran into the Shrike.”

His blood goes cold. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” Yennefer says. “A little shaken up, but okay. I was out to dinner with Istredd—”

“You went to dinner with _Istredd_?”

“Let’s focus on Ciri’s indiscretions, not mine. I thought I could trust her alone for a few hours, but obviously not. She was apparently on her way to Stregobor Tower when she saw some asshole punch his girlfriend behind a bar. She decided to intervene. Asshole had two friends. She was fighting them when Renfri showed up and killed two of the men.”

“Why was she going to Stregobor Tower?”

“You know why, Geralt.” Suddenly, Yennefer sounds very tired. “Ciri decided to get revenge for Renfri stabbing you and attacked her. That’s when I showed up. For what it’s worth, if the Shrike had wanted to hurt Ciri, she would have. It seemed more like she was holding Ciri off.”

Geralt thinks of how easily Renfri has now overpowered him twice. She could have killed Ciri in seconds.

“Ciri knows she’s made a mistake and she knows she’s in trouble,” Yennefer continues. “I think it all boils down to her feeling helpless. When you get home, I think the four of us need to sit down and have a talk about where to go from here.”

“The four of us?”

“You, me, Jaskier, and Ciri.”

Geralt groans. “Jaskier and I aren’t back together, Yenn.”

“Of course not. The reason you slept so late had nothing to do with being snuggled up with him, I’m sure.”

“I’m hanging up the phone now. Tell Ciri that I’m glad she’s okay. And that we’ll talk when I get home.”

“Tell Jaskier—”

Geralt hangs up before he can hear her message for Jaskier. He leaves the bathroom to find Jaskier sitting up in bed, squinting at Geralt. Geralt’s stomach flips because Jaskier looks _adorable_ with his sleep-rumpled hair, pillow-creased cheek, and bleary eyes. It’s enough to make Geralt want to climb back in bed and bury his face in Jaskier’s hair.

“Everything okay?” Jaskier’s voice is still husky with sleep.

“Ciri snuck out last night, but she’s fine.” Geralt sits on the edge of the bed, watching Jaskier carefully.

“Does she do that often?”

“Once before, that we know of. Yenn stays with her most nights when I’m on patrol. Ciri just wants to be a vigilante like her grandmother.”

“Have you thought about training her?”

“That wasn’t what Calanthe wanted.”

Jaskier cocks an eyebrow. “But what does Ciri want?”

“She wants to be a badass vigilante who goes up against the forces of darkness and has wild adventures. She had no idea what it’s actually like, because she’s sixteen and her grandmother gave her a sanitized version of her exploits as the Lioness.”

“And what do you think happens in two years, when Ciri’s eighteen and she’s off to college and you’re not her legal guardian anymore?”

Geralt closes his eyes. “I’m trying not to think about it.”

“I think Ciri is going to end up following in her grandmother’s footsteps one way or another, Geralt. It’s whether it happens with you there to protect her or when she’s out on her own, where anything could happen.”

“Yenn’s been telling me that for months.”

“Yenn’s a smart lady. You should listen to her. And to me.” Jaskier reaches over and pats Geralt on the knee, his hand lingering an instant longer than is necessary.

“You would have been better at this than I am,” Geralt says.

Jaskier grins. “That’s because I was an angsty teenager much, much more recently than you were.”

“I think our versions of teenage angst were a little different.”

“True. Mine had a lot more love triangles and acne and a lot less honing my body into the perfect weapon,” Jaskier says. “Come on, we should get ready to go. I can’t believe you let me sleep until 8:30. Who are you and what have you done with my boy… with, erm, Geralt?”

Geralt glances at him and sees that Jaskier’s face has gone purple. It does nothing to diminish his adorableness. “Want to stop for breakfast?”

“Is that even a question?”

***

Geralt takes the first shift driving, while Jaskier sits in the passenger seat and carefully thumbs through the diary they liberated from the Project Lilit lab.

“A lot of this sounds like the diary of any kid at a boarding school,” he tells Geralt. “What she ate for breakfast, things her tutors said to her, arguments she had with the other girls.”

“Anything useful?” Geralt asks.

Jaskier flips to the next page. “Well, there’s this. _‘Today, Free got out of isolation after a week. The first thing she did was punch Dr. S in the face and now she’s back in for another week. I told her if she keeps it up, we won’t get to hang out until Yule.’_ Dr. S could be Stregobor.”

“Could be. If so, good for Free.”

Jaskier keeps reading, his heart sinking as the entries become shorter and less chatty. There’s less discussions of the gross oatmeal the girls were served for breakfast and the hotness of their history tutor and more discussions of experiments and other girl’s funerals. _“Amelia died today. They won’t tell us what happened, just that it was an accident. Free says they as good as killed her.” “They called it a sensory deprivation tank. They kept me there for three days. They say they’re going to do it again next week. Free thinks we should run away.” “Lulu and Mari were gone this morning. No one will tell us what happened to them.”_ When the entries abruptly stop, Jaskier isn’t surprised, but his heart still clenches.

“You okay?” Geralt asks quietly.

Jaskier closes the diary. “This girl is dead. One minute she was writing about the cute boy on the TV show she was watching, and the next they experimented on her until she died.”

“We’ll get Stregobor.”

“But it’s too late for her.” Jaskier traces over the initials _ZAR_ on the cover.

“It is. But it won’t be too late for the next batch of girls.” Geralt’s brow furrows. “You want to stop for more coffee?”

Jaskier grins. First, Geralt didn’t drag him out the door before dawn, then he bought him breakfast, and now he’s offering to stop for coffee. He’s really trying to butter Jaskier up. Before Jaskier can tease him mercilessly for this fact, the car gives an enormous lurch and Geralt curses.

“What was that?” Jaskier demands as Geralt pulls to the side of the road.

“One of the tires,” Geralt says. “We must have run over something.”

“Probably a pothole.” They’re in the no man’s land part of the Continent, on a windy back road only a step above a dirt path. Trees line both sides of the street and they haven’t seen another car in miles.

Jaskier slides out of the car, forgetting he has the diary in his lap. It tumbles to the ground and he picks it up, apologizing silently to ZAR, and pockets it. Sure enough, one of the front tires is completely flattened. Jaskier crouches down to examine it. He doesn’t see any obvious signs of damage, but then again, he knows as much about cars as he does about brain surgery.

“What are the chances that Yennefer actually has a spare tire in her trunk and doesn’t just rely on magic to keep this car running?” he asks Geralt.

“Low.” Still, Geralt walks around the side of the car towards the trunk.

Jaskier straightens up. “I am so glad you were the one driving. When Yennefer finds out Annika got a flat tire, she’s going to—”

The car bursts into flames in front of him. The force sends Jaskier stumbling backwards. He trips and falls to the ground, staring at the fireball that was a car only seconds ago.

“Jaskier?” Geralt comes racing towards him.

“I’m fine.” Jaskier lets Geralt pull him to his feet, unable to take his eyes off the car. “What the hell was that?”

Geralt grabs Jaskier by the arm and drags him backwards. “We need to run.”

On the other side of the burning car, Jaskier sees a figure walking towards them. It’s a sandy-haired man of average build, with watery dark eyes and a thin mouth curved into a sneer. Something about the businesslike way he moves towards them makes Jaskier’s blood run cold. “Is that the sorcerer from last night?”

“Most likely.”

“And your potions?”

“In my bag. Which was in the backseat.”

Jaskier chances another glance towards the inferno. Nothing inside that car survived. “Well, fuck.”

“Jaskier, we need to go.” There’s an urgency to Geralt’s voice that Jaskier isn’t used to hearing. Geralt is scared. That realization is what breaks through the shock freezing his legs and sends him running into the woods, with Geralt at his heels.

They flee through the trees, heedless of the branches slapping at their faces and the roots and branches tripping them up. Geralt is directly behind Jaskier; Jaskier knows that Geralt could easily outrun him, but he’s staying behind Jaskier to block him from any spells. Jaskier wants to yell at him to just run as fast as he can and not worry about Jaskier, but he’s too out of breath to form words. His legs hurt and his lungs burn. Adrenaline and fear will only get him so far and he knows that he won’t be able to run for much longer.

Finally, Jaskier trips on a rock and goes to his knees, breathing heavily. “Geralt,” he manages to gasp out, but there’s no reply. When he looks around, Geralt isn’t behind him anymore.

Geralt’s gone and done something stupid and noble again and Jaskier didn’t even notice.

***

Slowly, Geralt makes his way towards the sorcerer. Behind him, he can hear Jaskier crashing through the trees, heedless of the fact that Geralt is no longer behind him. Geralt hopes that he’ll be a mile away before he realizes. The sorcerer isn’t much to look at, but there’s a cruel glint in his eye as he watches Geralt approach. Without his potions or any of his weapons, Geralt feels exposed and vulnerable. He just needs to buy enough time for Jaskier to escape. He just needs to live long enough to ensure Jaskier’s safety.

“You’re going to regret blowing up that car,” he says in greeting. “The sorceress who owns it was very fond of it.”

“I’m not worried about Yennefer Vengerberg.” The sorcerer looks past Geralt. “Where’s your little friend going?”

Geralt shifts to the right, blocking the other man’s view of Jaskier’s retreating back. “Don’t worry about him. He’s just a colleague. He doesn’t know what any of this is about.”

“Oh, we both know that’s a lie. You took something from the lab last night, Witcher. If you tell me where it is, I’ll kill you quickly. If you tell me where it is without me having to ask again, I’ll let your _colleague_ live.”

“It was in the car.”

“Really? You wouldn’t keep something that valuable on your person?”

Geralt holds his arms out. “Feel free to search me.”

“Or maybe I should search him.” The sorcerer points in the direction of Jaskier, who is now out of sight.

Geralt grits his teeth. If he shows how much the threats against Jaskier enrage him, the sorcerer will use that against him. “It was just a girl’s diary that we found hidden in a mattress. It had nothing of note in it. Mostly what she had for breakfast and the crushes she had on TV stars.”

“And yet you bothered taking it from the lab.”

“Well, we didn’t have much time to look it over before you showed up. Didn’t realize how useless it was until this morning.”

“I don’t know if I believe you.”

“Too bad you blew up Yennefer’s car. Now you’ll never know.”

The sorcerer stalks towards him, as if intending to actually search Geralt. He’s a head shorter than Geralt, with a slim build. Geralt may not have any of his abilities or weapons, but he still has the size advantage here. As soon as the sorcerer gets close enough, Geralt throws the entirety of his weight forward, slamming his shoulder into his attacker. The sorcerer falls back with a grunt and Geralt punches him in the face. He feels the gratifying crunch of cartilage under his fist and the sorcerer howls in pain. The sorcerer raises his hands to cast a spell and Geralt seizes him by the wrists, forcing his wrists to his sides while he digs his knee into the other man’s groin. The sorcerer whimpers.

“Did Stregobor send you?” Geralt growls.

“No, Melitele herself sent me,” the sorcerer snipes. “You and your friend are going to die here. No one finds bodies buried in these woods.”

The sounds of Jaskier running have long since faded away. “You won’t touch him.”

The sorcerer’s lips twist nastily. “Just a colleague?”

Geralt thinks of Jaskier cuddled in his arms the night before. He tightens his grip on the sorcerer’s wrists. “Don’t talk about him. Don’t think about him.”

“Be less predictable, Witcher.”

Something winds around Geralt’s ankles. Before Geralt can turn to see what it is, he’s yanked backwards, away from the sorcerer. He looks down to see tree roots twisting their way up his legs. He tries to pry them off, but they snake up from the ground and travel up his abdomen. He’s forced into a kneeling position and his arms are wrenched behind his back painfully The sorcerer punches Geralt in the face. It’s not much of a punch, but Geralt still grunts, because he knows enough about men like this to know that if he doesn’t show pain, the sorcerer will find better ways to hurt him. Like tracking down Jaskier.

“I have questions for you,” the sorcerer says.

“Of course you do.” Geralt stares straight ahead, keeping his face impassive.

“I need to know everything that you discovered about Project Lilit this weekend and who else knows.”

“Just what was in that diary, which wasn’t much. And no one but me knows.”

“Not even your friend?”

“He never saw the diary. He knows nothing..”

The sorcerer clenches his fist and the roots tighten around Geralt, jerking his arms further back. He swallows a gasp of pain. “That’s odd,” the sorcerer says. “Because Aridea Creyden made it sound like Mr. Pankratz was the one asking most of the questions. I can’t imagine he wouldn’t even look at the diary.”

So he does know who Jaskier is. Fuck. “That’s just Jaskier for you. He’s always the one doing most of the talking. You shouldn’t read into it.”

“I don’t think that’s true.” The roots tighten and Geralt groans.

“If you already know the answers to all these questions, why bother asking?” Geralt growls.

The sorcerer crouches down so they’re at eye level. “Where is the diary, Witcher? Did you hide it somewhere? Does your friend have it?”

“I already told you, it was in the car.”

One of the roots wrapped around Geralt’s abdomen curls its way upwards, positioning itself over his heart.

“I could force everything you know out of your head,” the sorcerer says. “But this is more fun. Tell me what I want to know, or…” The root presses into Geralt’s chest, just breaking the skin. “That could go deeper.”

“Death by tree root. Seems overly complicated. Haven’t you heard of knives?”

The root digs in deeper.

“Fuck you,” Geralt bites out.

“Eloquent last words. Though I suppose I shouldn’t expect more from a man who willingly turned himself into a mutant. I guess I’ll go get the diary off your boyfriend’s corpse.”

“No!” At the sound of Jaskier’s voice, Geralt’s heart sinks. Jaskier comes racing through the trees. He places himself between Geralt and the sorcerer, arms spread out like blocking Geralt from the sorcerer’s view will protect him from the magic. “Leave him alone!”

“Oh, good,” the sorcerer says. “I was wondering where you got off to. This will be easier now.”

“Stregobor wants the Shrike taken care of, right?” Jaskier’s voice is surprisingly steady, even has his hands shake. “What happens if you kill us? There goes your last chance at killing her.”

“Unfortunately, the Witcher hasn't been holding up his end of the bargain,” the sorcerer says coolly. “Stregobor had high hopes for this professional arrangement, but we’re almost to the end of the month, and the Shrike still lives. He promised retribution if you failed him, Witcher. Should I start with your retribution now?”

“Jaskier, get out of here,” Geralt growls.

Jaskier takes a step backwards, so he’s directly in front of Geralt. “Not without you.”

“You took a diary from the lab,” the sorcerer says. “Where is it?”

Jaskier doesn’t miss a beat.“I left it in the car.”

“Are you sure?”

All the roots holding Geralt in place contract and he can’t stop a strangled groan from escaping him.

“Wait!” For the first time, Jaskier sounds scared. He reaches into his pocket and throws the diary to the ground at the sorcerer’s feet. “Here it is. Here’s what you’re looking for. Now let him go!”

“See, Witcher?” Geralt can’t see the sorcerer’s expression around Jaskier, but he can hear the smugness in the man’s voice. “See how easy it was for your friend here to cooperate? Why couldn’t you have been so agreeable?”

On the ground, the diary bursts into flames. In a matter of seconds, it’s reduced to ashes.

“Now, if only you’d cooperated from the beginning, I wouldn’t have to do this,” the sorcerer adds. Roots spring up from the ground and wind their way around Jaskier’s legs. He sways dangerously, like he’s going to fall, but the roots hold him up. They stop at his hips, but Geralt can see where they press painfully into Jaskier’s skin. He snarls and struggles fruitlessly, but he can’t get to Jaskier. Jaskier is only inches in front of him, but he may as well be a mile away.

“What do you want?” Jaskier demands. “I gave you the diary. That’s what you came for, right?”

“Did you take anything else from the lab?” the sorcerer asks.

“No, I already told you, we didn't find anything else.” Geralt can feel blood running down his arms from his struggles against the roots.

“I’ve already caught you in one lie. Don’t let me catch you in another.”

“We only took the diary.” Geralt has never felt so helpless in his life, unable to place himself between Jaskier and danger. Jaskier is the one caught in the middle now, as trapped as Geralt is.

“Look, we have almost a week until the end of the month,” Jaskier says. “Give us more time. Stregobor will get the Shrike’s head, like he wants. But you have to let us go.”

“Stregobor’s patience has a limit. Your Witcher has tested it too many times.”

Jaskier lets out a strangled noise as the roots tighten around him. When he speaks, he sounds breathless. “We don’t have anything else for you. This weekend was a waste of time. Aridea Creyden told us nothing. The diary told us nothing. We didn’t find anything else at the lab. Please, you can let us go.”

“What do you think, Witcher?” The sorcerer asks. “Can I let your boyfriend go?”

_“If you want to walk away from here in one piece,”_ is the first reply that comes to mind, but Geralt bites it back. Threats won’t help him right now. Instead he says, “I’ll do what Stregobor wants. Just let him live.”

Jaskier looks around at Geralt with wide eyes. “No, you should let him live. He’s way more useful to you! He can kill the Shrike. You need him.”

“Jaskier, shut up.” Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, furious and helpless and so full of love for the stubborn, brave idiot in front of him.

Jaskier ignores him. “Look, I’m the one who dragged him here. This was all my fault. He wanted to do what Stregobor said, but I talked him out of it. If you’re going to hurt anyone, it should be me.”

“No, it should not be you.” Geralt is torn between the urges to throttle Jaskier and kiss him. He can’t do either of those things right now. “If he dies, I won’t do a damn thing Stregobor says. Hell, I’ll help the Shrike kill him. Jaskier lives, or Stregobor can forget having my help.”

“That would be a more compelling argument, if you’d ever shown any interest in doing what Stregobor wanted,” the sorcerer says coolly. “And I think it’s time you face some consequences for your stubbornness.”

Jaskier cries out and doubles over as the roots travel up his torso. Geralt throws himself forward in one final, useless attempt to get to Jaskier just as a portal opens up and Yennefer steps out.

“Is this a good time to mention that I called a friend?” Jaskier asks, wheezing slightly.

The sorcerer stumbles backwards and Geralt catches a glimpse of his shocked face before Yennefer attacks. Yennefer is a hurricane of rage; even without the aid of his potions, Geralt can feel the chaos dancing in the air around her. The spell she sends hurtling the mage kills the grass under his feet and scorches the bark of the trees surrounding him. He just manages to dodge. Instead of sending a spell back towards her, the cowardly bastard aims at Geralt and Jaskier. Yennefer lunges in front of them, blocking the spell. Geralt can’t see her expression, but he doesn’t need to. He can see in the tension of her shoulders that the sorcerer just made a very bad call.

The sorcerer seems to realize it as well. A portal opens up behind him and he scrambles backwards on his hands and knees, eyes wild with panic. Flames dance out of Yennefer’s hands and shoot through the portal after him. Just before the portal closes, Geralt hears a bloodcurdling scream.

Yennefer turns to Geralt and Jaskier. There’s a sheen of sweat on her forehead but besides that, she looks unruffled. “Are you both okay?”

“I’ll be better once you get us out of these.” Geralt nods to his bindings.

Yennefer waves her hand and the roots fall away. Placing her hands on her hips, she looks between Geralt and Jaskier. “Now that that’s dealt with, who wants to tell me what happened to my fucking car?”

***

As soon as they step through the portal into Yennefer’s apartment, Jaskier collapses on the couch and is promptly tackled by Roach. He scratches the dog behind the ear and leans his face against the top of her head, breathing deeply through the waves of nausea. He fucking hates portaling, especially across the entire Continent. There’s a reason portaling has never been a widespread method of transportation: it sucks.

“Are you okay?” Geralt sits next to him. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine, just bruised.” Jaskier looks up at Yennefer with watery eyes. “Centuries’ worth of magical innovation, and no one has found a way to make portaling less shitty?”

“You’re welcome for saving your life, Jaskier. Geralt, you’re bleeding.”

Geralt looks down at the blood on his chest. “It’s shallow. Worse than it looks.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Ciri, go get my bag, please.”

For the first time, Jaskier notices Ciri hovering at the edge of the room, watching Geralt and Jaskier with wide eyes. She nods and scurries downstairs to the shop.

“I take it your weekend was successful, if assassins are trying to hunt you down,” Yennefer says, kneeling down in front of Geralt to inspect his wound.

“We found a diary, but the assassin destroyed it,” Geralt says.

“You really think I would let that asshole incinerate our only evidence?” Jaskier pulls out his phone. “I didn’t have time to take pictures of everything, but I got some of the passages that seemed the most important, like the ones talking about the experiments and Dr. S.”

Geralt looks impressed. “Good thing he didn’t confiscate your phone.”

“He was planning on killing me anyway. He probably would have just taken it off my dead body. But I knew Yennefer would get there first.”

“You’re lucky I managed to get to you in time, with the vague directions you gave me,” Yennefer says.

Jaskier shrugs. “Geography isn’t a strong point of mine. And then there’s this.” He plays the recording he took during his confrontation with the assassin. Since the phone was in his pocket, the quality isn’t great and a lot of words are lost, but enough is audible to be damning for Stregobor and his assassin. 

When they get to the part where Jaskier and Geralt both beg the assassin to spare the other one, Jaskier’s face heats up, like he’s been caught with his pants down, and he can’t look Geralt or Yennefer in the eye. _“ If you’re going to hurt anyone, it should be me.”_ The raw desperation in his voice is audible, even over the muffled recording. No one who listens to this will have any doubts about Jaskier’s feelings for Geralt.

“Alright, so we have pictures of a girl’s diary entries, a recording, and Aridea Creyden’s testimony,” Yennefer says. “Where do we go from here?”

“No idea.” Jaskier shakes his head. “It’s good, but I don’t know if it’s enough. And I’m still technically off this story. I can’t exactly walk into the Countess’s office tomorrow with this. I guess I could try anonymously sending it to another paper, but most legitimate news sources don’t work with anonymous sources.”

“I always thought you would do well writing about failed butt lifts at _The Redanian Mail,_ ” Yennefer says. Jaskier makes a rude hand gesture, but has to quickly lower his finger when Ciri walks back into the room, carrying Yennefer’s bag.

“Who did this?” Ciri asks, staring at the wound over Geralt’s heart. It really isn’t bad, nothing compared to the stab wound Renfri gave him, but she’s still pale.

“Some sorcerer working for Stregobor,” Jaskier says. “He had quite the green thumb.”

Geralt snorts.

“He won’t be a problem for a while.” Yennefer smiles smugly as she cleans Geralt’s wound. “I sent enough magic after him through that portal to obliterate a small village. If he lived, he’s going to be hurting for a long time.”

“And that’s why I called you,” Jaskier says.

Yennefer looks up at Geralt. “You’re going to need stitches so it won’t scar, but it’s not so deep that it needs magical intervention. I’m pretty drained from all the portaling and damsel in distress rescuing anyway.”

“Am I the damsel, or is Geralt the damsel?” Jaskier asks.

“You both are,” Ciri says, and Jaskier grins at her.

“Do you want something for the pain?” Yennefer asks Geralt.

He shakes his head. “It’s not that bad.”

Jaskier, Yennefer, and Ciri roll their eyes in unison.

“So stoic,” Jaskier says and before he can lose his nerve, he slips his hand into Geralt’s and threads their fingers together. He holds Geralt’s hand, letting Geralt squeezes his fingers as Yennefer stitches up the wound. And if Geralt leans against Jaskier a little more than can be considered stoic, Jaskier doesn’t bring it up.

***

Jaskier comes back to Geralt’s apartment with Geralt, Ciri, and Roach. There’s never any discussion of him going back to his own apartment; he seems to think that Geralt’s minor wound means that Jaskier needs to play caretaker. Geralt feels perfectly fine, if a little sore from where his arms were wrenched behind his back, but he doesn’t complain. Ciri and Jaskier make dinner together, giggling and chatting in the kitchen, while Geralt sits on the couch and ices his shoulders. He smiles to himself as he listens to Ciri giggling uncontrollably at one of Jaskier’s stories.

Ciri still seems nervous around Geralt, as if she expects him to shout at her for sneaking out the night before, but all his frustration seems to have melted away. He’s too tired to be angry. This morning, he thought he was going to end up just another one of Ciri’s dead parental figures and part of him wonders if she would be better off if Yennefer took her in. She and Yennefer adore each other, while Geralt still has no idea how to talk to her.

Later, after dinner is long over and Jaskier and Roach are cuddled together on the couch, Geralt knocks on Ciri’s bedroom door. She looks impossibly young in one of Eist’s old University of Skellige rowing sweatshirts, her hair pulled back in a braid. She watches him with solemn eyes as he perches on the edge of her bed.

“Are you alright?” Geralt asks, at the same time Ciri says, “I’m sorry.”

Geralt takes a deep breath, then asks, “Why did you sneak out?”

“I just wanted to help.” She stares determinedly down at the bedspread. “You and Jaskier were in Corvo Bianco and Yennefer was out to dinner with Istredd and I felt like I needed to do something. I wasn’t planning on fighting anyone though, I swear. I don’t know, I just wanted to stake out Stregobor Tower for a bit and see if I could learn anything. But then I heard that woman screaming and her boyfriend to stop hitting her and I had to help.”

“I know,” Geralt says. If she’s anything like her grandmother, there’s no chance she could walk away while someone was crying out in distress. “Look, we’re both tired. It’s been a long weekend. But tomorrow, we should have a talk.”

“There’s something I need to tell you.” Ciri’s voice is suddenly thick with tears. “When I was talking to the Shrike, I accidentally said your real name. She knows that your name is Geralt now. I’m sorry. It was such a stupid mistake.”

Fuck, that complicates things. But Geralt keeps his tone even. “Renfri knowing my real name is less of a threat than Stregobor knowing it. We don’t have to worry about her going to the police. And we already know what she wants.”

“But what if she shows up here? Yenn’s wards won’t keep her out.”

“We’ll deal with that when it happens,” Geralt says. “Look, Ciri, you screwed up, but I think you already know that. I’m sure Yennefer already lectured you.”

Ciri shudders. “She was angry.”

“Because you probably scared her shitless when she got home and realized you were gone.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

Geralt nods. “I know you are. We’ll talk more in the morning. Get some sleep.” He hesitates, then drops a kiss on the top of her head before leaving her bedroom and pulling the door closed behind him.

He finds Jaskier on the couch, in the same spot where he always used to sit, curled up with Roach’s head in his lap. Roach is sound asleep on her back, legs twitching as she dreams. When Jaskier looks up and sees Geralt, he smiles. “How’s Ciri?”

“Self-flagellating,” Geralt says.

“Must run in the family.”

Geralt snorts. Jaskier is wearing a pair of Geralt’s old sweatpants, as his jeans got torn up in the confrontation with the sorcerer. They’re baggy, threatening to slide down his hips at any moment. It shouldn’t be flattering, but Geralt can’t tear his eyes away from him.

“You’re sure you’re not hurt?” he asks.

“I didn’t manage to injure myself in the twenty minutes since the last time you asked me, Geralt.” Jaskier carefully lifts Roach’s head off his lap and stands up. “How’s the gaping hole in your chest?”

Geralt shrugs. “It will heal as soon as I take a potion. Yenn just stitched it up so I wouldn’t scar.”

“Why haven’t you taken a potion then?” When Geralt hesitates, Jaskier frowns. “You’re not going to scare me, if that’s what you’re worried about. But I can leave, if you don’t want to take the potion when I’m still around.”

The last thing Geralt wants is for Jaskier to leave. He wants Jaskier here, where he knows there will be no homicidal sorcerers lying in wait beneath Jaskier’s fire escape. “Stay,” Geralt says. “I don’t want you to go home.”

“Maybe Roach will let me sleep on the couch with her.”

Geralt turns away so Jaskier won’t see his expression. Of course Jaskier wants to sleep on the couch. “You two will have to work that out.”

He goes to the kitchen to take a half dose of potion, facing the sink as it starts to take effect. Some of the pain in his chest and shoulders immediately starts to ease and he lets out a long, slow breath.

“Better?” Jaskier leans against the doorframe, watching him. Jaskier’s expressions are hardly ever inscrutable, but Geralt can’t figure out what he’s thinking right now.

“Much,” Geralt says.

“You shouldn’t not take something that will help your pain just because you’re worried about freaking me out. Not that this freaks me out. You still look like you, just more badass.” Slowly, Jaskier moves towards him. “I don’t want to sleep on the couch tonight, Geralt.”

Geralt can’t take his eyes off him. He can hear Jaskier’s rapid pulse. “I have a sleeping bag somewhere.”

“Oh, the potions give you a sense of humor. Good to know.” Jaskier stands right in front of him, so close that their noses are nearly touching. “I was scared shitless earlier, thinking you were going to get hurt.”

It’s hard to think, when he’s standing this close. “You didn’t show it.”

“Didn’t I? Pretty sure I was shaking like a leaf.”

“You were amazing. I… I’m not used to people putting themselves between me and danger.”

“If this is the part where you tell me to never do it again, I think you know what my answer will be.”

“Yeah, I do.” Geralt studies Jaskier’s face, the soft curve of his smile and the warmth in his eyes. “I love you.”

Jaskier’s eyes go wide.

“I didn’t say it enough, when we were together,” Geralt says, talking quickly so he can get all the words out before he loses his nerve. “I should have said it more.”

Jaskier looks stunned. “You don’t… I mean, if you don’t want to say it, you don’t have to, Geralt.”

“I do. I want to say it. If you give me another chance, I’ll say it every day.”

Jaskier’s breath hitches.

“I’m sorry.” Geralt presses himself back against the counter. “I’ve upset you.”

“Not even a little,” Jaskier says softly. “I love you too.”

And then Jaskier is kissing him, his mouth hot against Geralt’s and his hands tangled in Geralt’s hair. Geralt pulls him as close as he can. Jaskier tastes the same as he always has, sweet and warm and perfect. Geralt doesn’t know how he’s survived the last six months without this. Everything--the press of Jaskier’s lips and the way his hands feel on Geralt’s skin and the pounding of his heart against Geralt’s chest--is so familiar, but novel after all their time apart. Jaskier moans softly and Geralt pulls away from him.

“Bedroom,” he says.

Jaskier’s face is flushed and his eyes bright. “Yes, please.”

It’s a challenge, making it down the short hallway to the bedroom when they can’t keep their mouths or their hands off each other. As soon as the door is closed behind them, Geralt gently pushes Jaskier up against the wall. He kisses his way down Jaskier’s throat, nipping at the soft skin. Slowly, he begins to rock his hips against Jaskier’s. Even through the baggy sweatpants, Geralt can feel the length of him pressed against Geralt’s belly.

“What do you want, Jaskier?” he asks in a low voice.

“You,” Jaskier whispers. “Just you.”

“You can have me,” Geralt tells him and pulls him down onto the bed.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stregobor puts a serious crimp in the boys’ afterglow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Already, so we're nearing the finish line here! I hope you guys enjoy the softness at the beginning of this chapter, because things are about to get significantly less soft and fluffy :)

Renfri has never been in Stregobor’s home before, but she knows the layout perfectly. She’s imagined herself here so many times that it’s even more familiar than her own childhood home. When other people lie awake at night and think about love, sex, or money, Renfri has pictured the same scenario a thousand times: bursting through the oak front door, climbing the sweeping staircase, walking through the third door on the left, and impaling Stregobor where he sleeps in his four-poster bed.

She silences the cry of the guard posted by the front door with a punch to his throat. He hits his head against the door frame and is knocked unconscious, so she leaves him alive. The three guards in the foyer aren’t so lucky. She kills them with quick, brutal efficiency before they have time to throw a punch. She meets two more guards on the steps and eliminates them. Some are sorcerers, while others are armed with guns and knives. It doesn’t matter; none of them are quick enough for Renfri.

By the time Renfri pushes open the door of the third bedroom on the left, her hands are slick with blood. She can feel it drying on her face and in her hair. The coppery scent is pungent. There’s a dark shape lying in Stregobor’s bed, perfectly still besides the gentle rise and fall of his breathing. Just like Stregobor, to sleep soundly while his bodyguards were being butchered downstairs. Renfri has always pictured drawing this out, making the bastard beg before she ends him. But right now, she’s tired. She wants this to be over. She wants Stregobor gone so she can finally move on with her life.

She crosses the room in three strides and drives the pike through the down coverlet and into the body underneath. There’s a strangled gurgle, then silence. Renfri leans closer so she can examine her handiwork. The man in the bed has the same build as Stregobor, with the same neatly trimmed gray hair and beard. But the man in the bed is not Stregobor. The bastard used a body double as bait.

Renfri jerks the pike out of the corpse and hurls it against the wall.

***

“Mother Melitele, I missed this bed.” Jaskier stretches out luxuriously across Geralt’s king-sized bed, his hand flopping into Geralt’s face.

Geralt kisses his wrist. “Just the bed?”

“The pillows are nice too.” Jaskier flips over on his side to face Geralt. He can tell he’s grinning stupidly, but he can’t help it. He’s just too fucking happy to control his face. “And the duvet that someone had monstrously shoved in the closet for the last six months.”

“It’s too heavy.”

“Not all of us have an absurd amount of muscle to keep us warm at night.”

In the dim morning light, Geralt looks sleepy and content, with a little smile curling his lips. It’s early, well before either of them have to be up for work. “Miss anything else?”

“That lamp over there. Really fond of that lamp.”

Geralt rolls his eyes.

“And I guess I missed you too.” Jaskier leans over to kiss him. “Who am I kidding? I even missed your morning breath.”

“Mm. Romantic.” Geralt runs a thumb over Jaskier’s cheek. This soft, smiling Geralt is miles away from the black-eyed Geralt who left bite marks on Jaskier’s thighs the night before. At the memory of those black eyes watching Jaskier as Geralt had his head between Jaskier’s thighs, warmth floods Jaskier’s body.

Geralt’s hand slides down Jaskier’s body and finds his erection under the covers. “I missed this.”

Jaskier wants to make a witty remark, but Geralt suddenly makes it very difficult for him to think. The night before was passionate and raw, with six months of longing, heartbreak, and pent up sexual tension finally released. This morning, they’re slow, almost lazy, and playful. The end result is the same, though: Jaskier curled up next to Geralt, sweaty, satisfied, and still unable to get that stupid grin off his face.

“I love you,” he tells Geralt.

“I love you too.” Geralt presses a kiss to the tip of his nose. “I guess I’m going to have to get used to sleeping under this duvet again.”

“As long as you want to do this again.”

“I would do this again for the rest of the day if I didn’t have to get Ciri to school and go to work.”

“Ugh, work.” Jaskier stretches. “I should probably head back to my place soon to get ready.”

Geralt makes an unhappy noise into the crook of his neck. “You should move back in here.”

Jaskier strokes his hair. “Don’t you think that’s a little soon?”

“I’ve wasted enough time. I don’t want to miss any more.”

“Okay,” Jaskier says.

Geralt’s eyebrows quirk up. “Okay?”

“What, were you expecting an argument? Have you seen my place? I never even unpacked, that’s how much I hate it! I have to climb through a window to get in and out.”

“That’s entirely your fault.”

“It’s not my fault there’s not enough wall space for two dressers.”

Geralt nuzzles him under the ear. “You’re not going to be able to use the second bedroom as a closet anymore. You may need to get rid of some clothes.”

“You shouldn’t say things like that to me five minutes after fucking my brains out. I can't get mad at you right now.” But Jaskier’s eyes flit to the closed closet door.

When my lease is up, we can find something else if you can't live here.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” Jaskier says. “We’re not going to find anything else this nice in our price range and it’s a good location for work and Ciri’s school.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want you terrified every time you need to get a pair of socks from the closet.”

“What kind of monster keeps their socks in the closet?”

“Jask.”

“I’ll be okay. Worst comes to worst, I’ll train Roach to fetch my clothes for me.”

“The office dress code is relaxed, but they may draw the line at slobber stains and holes chewed in your clothing.”

“Depending on where the holes are, the Countess may approve.”

Geralt groans. “You’re incorrigible.”

“You love it.” Jaskier leans over to kiss the corner of his mouth.

“I do.”

***

Finally, Geralt has to relent and let Jaskier out of bed. He’s closing the door behind Jaskier when Ciri emerges from her bedroom, already dressed for school. Her eyebrows quirk up when she sees Geralt standing at the door, still in his pajamas.

“Does this mean I have two dads now?” she asks.

Geralt knows she’s only joking, so he ignores the complicated mixture of affection and fear that her calling him “dad” instills. “This means you might have to give up your bedroom so Jaskier has somewhere to keep all his clothes.”

She looks delighted. “He’s moving in here? Hold on, I need to text Yenn. She owes me an ice cream.”

Geralt is going to have to have a talk with Yenn about encouraging Ciri to gamble. “Just go get ready for school. You’re going to be late.”

“Um, Geralt, I’ve been ready for twenty minutes. Why don’t you go get ready for work?”

“Hm.”

A half an hour later, when they’re speed walking down the sidewalk, Ciri says, “So, when I’m late for homeroom, can I blame it on you? I’ll tell them you slipped and fell in the shower and broke your hip and I had to rush you to the ER.”

“How old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. Your hair is white.”

Geralt snorts. “That’s a side effect of the Witcher potion.”

“Seriously?” Her eyes go wide.

“My hair was almost as dark as Yenn’s when I was younger. And my eyes were brown.”

“I can’t picture you with brown eyes.”

“I was so young when they changed, I hardly remember them either.” Geralt looks down at her and feels a pang of remorse. He wants to give her a normal life. He wants her to live a life free of fear and danger. He’s starting to realize that’s impossible.

“I was probably three or four when Vesemir found me,” he tells her. “I kept changing my answer when he asked me how old I was, so we were never sure.”

“You don’t know how old you are? So you don’t know when your birthday is?”

“I think it was in the winter. I remember it snowing on my birthday one year. I’ve always counted the solstice as my birthday.” Geralt shrugs. He’s never really cared about birthdays. “Vesemir found me sitting on a bench in Rivia Park on Geralt Road. Hence the name. My mother had left me there.”

“What happened to her?”

“I don’t know. All I remember about her was that she had red hair.” Geralt swallows back the tightness in his throat. He hates talking about this. “I was never given a choice about becoming this person. Vesemir started dosing me with the potion when I was still a child. I grew up learning ways to kill a man while other kids my age were learning their multiplication tables. This is all I ever knew. Vesemir started taking me on patrols when I was twelve. He started sending me out alone when I was sixteen.”

Her eyes go wide and he knows she’s about to point out that she’s sixteen, so shouldn’t she be allowed to go on patrols? He shakes his head. “It wasn’t a good thing. I nearly got myself killed a half dozen times that first year. If not for Yenn, I would have. She was portaling me out of scrapes or patching up gaping wounds every other week. And I let the power get to my head. They used to call me the Butcher, because I thought I could play judge, jury, and executioner. I thought it was my right to decide who lived or died. No sixteen year old kid who can’t even grow a beard yet should have that kind of power.”

“But you learned.”

“It took me almost a decade. In that decade, I broke Yennefer’s heart a hundred times. I alienated Vesemir, the only family I ever had. I didn’t make any friends, never held down a real job. The people I was trying to help were almost always terrified of me. I was miserable. And one day, I couldn’t do it anymore. I was tired. So I went underground for a year. And when I came back, I tried to be a different man. I tried to ask questions before I threw a punch and to only kill as a last resort.”

“So is that why you don’t want me to use my powers?” Ciri asks quietly. “You think I’ll start killing people?”

Geralt shakes his head. “No. You’re a smarter, more compassionate kid than I ever was. This life is shit sometimes, Ciri. I’ve done a lot of good, but it takes a toll. If this is what you want, you need to realize that it’s going to be a lonely life. You’ll have to lie to the people you care about. When you make a friend or start dating someone, you’ll need to decide whether you can trust them with your secret. Some day, you may come home to find the person you love tied up in a closet, beaten bloody. Is that the kind of life you can live?”

Ciri doesn’t answer right away, which is why Geralt takes her answer seriously. “Yes,” she says after several moments of silence. “I know the risks, Geralt. I watched my grandmother face them every day. What’s the point of having my power, if I can’t use it to help people?”

It isn’t the answer Geralt wanted, but it’s what he expected. “There will be rules. You’ll need to keep learning how to control your powers with Yennefer. You’re already pretty good at hand to hand combat, but you could get better. You shouldn’t use your powers unless it’s a life or death situation, so we should teach you how to use a weapon. How do you feel about swords?”

“Great! I feel great about swords.”

Geralt’s lips twitch. “Then we’ll teach you how to use a sword. But we’re going to take things slow here, Ciri. We’re not going to start with you bursting into Stregobor Tower alone. You can come on patrols with me when it’s not a school night. Don’t look at me like that. Do you want to repeat your junior year because you were out all night chasing bank robbers?”

She shudders theatrically. “Gods, no.”

They reach the front steps of the school. Geralt can hear the final bell ringing. He should usher Ciri inside, but he’s not done. “And this is important. If at any point you change your mind and decide this isn’t what you want, you tell me. I won’t judge you. I won’t think any less of you. Your happiness is what’s important here. Understood?”

Ciri is suddenly looking at the ground very intently. She nods.

Geralt chooses a point over her shoulder to stare at. “I’m not… I’m shit at having a family, Ciri. Vesemir is a good man. He loved me in his own way and he’s the closest thing I ever had to a father. But he wasn’t affectionate. We never went into the backyard to play catch, unless you count throwing knives at each other.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

“It was all for training.” Geralt jams his hands into his pockets. “I never thought I would have a kid. Pretty sure all the potions I take make that impossible, but I’ve never tried. I haven’t been what you needed. I haven’t been around enough. But I’m going to try and be better."

“Okay,” she says.

“And if I do something wrong or you’re upset about something, just tell me so we can fix it.”

Ciri looks up at him and to his surprise, her eyes are bright with tears. To his even greater surprise, she hugs him. Her head barely comes up to his breastbone. When he hugs her back, he’s struck by how small she is and he feels a surge of horror at the thought of letting this girl that Calanthe entrusted to him anywhere near death and violence. He almost rescinds his promise to train her on the spot. But he can’t bear the thought of the disappointment and anger on her face. He’s been the cause of enough disappointment lately.

“I love you.” It surprises him how easily he says the words.

“I love you too.” Ciri’s voice is muffled against his shirt.

They stand that way for a long time. Ciri ends up being very late for homeroom.

***

“Well, I see someone had fun in Corvo Bianco,” Essi says as soon as Jaskier slides into her passenger seat.

Jaskier still hasn’t lost the goofy smile he’s been wearing all morning. The weather is cold and slushy, his ancient coffee maker chose this morning to stop working, and they’re definitely going to be late to work, but he doesn’t care. Geralt is his boyfriend again. They’re moving back in together. Jaskier had the best sex of his life last night. Today is a glorious fucking day to be alive.

“Jask?” Essi’s voice is teasing.

“Hm?” Jaskier realizes he was gazing dreamily out the window and turns to his friend.

“Is that a hickey on your neck?”

Jaskier tugs the collar of his shirt a little higher. “What happens in Corvo Bianco stays in Corvo Bianco, Ess.”

She rolls her eyes. “Are you going to tell me about them?”

“A gentleman never kisses and tells.” Eventually, Jaskier will have to tell Essi and Shani that he’s back together with Geralt, especially once he moves back into their apartment. And he knows he won’t be able to tell the truth about why he and Geralt are reconciling. They’ll think he’s forgiven the man who cheated on him and broke his heart and he won’t be able to tell them that Geralt didn’t actually cheat on him. They won’t understand and it will probably lead to a fight. He’ll tell Essi tomorrow, he decides. Today is for basking in the afterglow of his night with Geralt.

“I wish you had that philosophy when you were banging the Countess,” Essi says. “If I had to hear another word about her fabulous tits—”

“They really are fabulous.”

“Gods, Jaskier, you’re incorrigible.”

Jaskier grins. “So I’ve been told.”

He still feels like he’s walking on air, right up until he gets to work and finds Valdo, the Countess, and two security guards waiting for him at his cubicle.

“Have a nice weekend, Pankratz?” Valdo is smiling like a cat who just found a nest of baby birds, which is how Jaskier knows everything is about to go to shit.

Jaskier feels his own smile die. “It was nice. Uneventful.”

“That’s not what we heard,” Valdo says.

“Julian.” Countess leans her hips against his desk, her gaze hard as she looks at Jaskier. “I thought I was perfectly clear during our discussion about the Shrike story, wasn’t I? You’re off the story. You weren’t to do any more research on the Shrike or Black Sun Industries.”

Jaskier swallows. “Charlotte, I can explain—”

“Please do. Explain why you were in Corvo Bianco this weekend, harassing a well-respected philanthropist.”

Behind Jaskier, Essi sucks in a breath.

“‘Philanthropist’ may be a stretch,” Jaskier says. “Given that Aridea Creyden sold her stepdaughter off to be a science experiment.”

The Countess’ nostrils flare. “Either way, going to Corvo Bianco to interview her went directly against the instructions I gave you. You’re fired, Julian. You have fifteen minutes to clean out your desk.”

Jaskier’s heart plummets to the region of his belly button. “Look, I don’t know what Stregobor said or did to you to get you to take me off this story—”

“I’ve already given you my reasons.”

“But I got proof this weekend that Project Lilit existed! Aridea’s testimony, a diary of one of the test subjects, a recording of the fucking assassin that Stregobor sent after me. They killed little girls. No amount of ad space purchased by Back Sun Industries is worth covering that up!”

The Countess shakes her head. “This happens to a lot of young reporters. You all want the next history-making expose. I never should have let you do the Ghoul interview. It made you stop taking the entertainment beat seriously. But you have to listen to yourself. This Project Lilit is a fairytale that a very disturbed girl fed you.”

“If you would just look at what I’ve found—”

“I already told you, this story isn’t up to the journalistic standards of _The Continental Press._ We don’t write about conspiracy theories.”

Jaskier lets out a bitter laugh. “Journalistic standards? Where in those journalistic standards is there room for you screwing your subordinates, killing stories because the right person buys ad space and hiring dipshits like him—” He jerks a thumb at Valdo. “--Because his uncle’s a family friend?”

Valdo turns purple with anger.

Charlotte’s eyes narrow. “Pack up your things, Julian, and get out of my sight, or you’ll be escorted out of here by security.”

Jaskier’s gaze flickers towards the two security guards. “You should know that Geralt had nothing to do with this. He was just my ride to Corvo Bianco. He had no idea that I’d been taken off the Shrike story.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not about to fire my best crime beat reporter,” the Countess says. “Foltest already vouched for Geralt.”

And of course, Jaskier doesn’t have anyone to vouch for him, because Valdo loathes him and probably begged the Countess to fire him. “Okay,” he says softly. He could keep arguing, but he can’t bring himself to say anything that could cost Geralt his job. One of them needs to stay employed if they’re going to make rent.

For an instant, her expression gentles. “You’re a good writer, Julian. I wish I didn’t have to do this, but you left me no choice.”

“You mean, Stregobor left you no choice?”

She strides out of the cubicle without answering.

“Don’t bother asking me for a reference, Pankratz,” Valdo says, before following.

“Oh, fuck off, Valdo.” Someone was thoughtful enough to leave a cardboard box on his desk at least. Hands shaking, Jaskier begins shoving knick knacks and framed pictures into it. His potted plant has been dead for months now, but he shoves that in the box too.

“Jaskier?” Behind him, Essi’s voice is soft and uncertain.

He can’t look at her. He has to make it out of here without crying, and if he looks at her, he’s definitely going to dissolve into tears. “I’ll talk to you later, Ess.”

“You went to Corvo Bianco with Geralt?”

“Yeah.”

“Why wouldn’t you tell me?” She sounds hurt. It would be a lot easier if she sounded angry or exasperated.

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut. He’s doing his best not to cry, but he can’t stop a tear from escaping. “I can’t talk about this right now, okay? I’m sorry. I’ll call you later.”

She calls after him as he takes his box of possessions and walks towards the elevator, but he doesn’t look back. He tries to hold his head high and ignore the stares and whispers of his coworkers. At least Geralt’s job is safe and Jaskier only tanked his own career, not both of theirs. Without a reference, his chances of ever getting another job in journalism are slim to none. Jaskier pictures himself back in Lettenhove, working in his father’s office, and the urge to curl into a ball and weep becomes overwhelming. But he refuses to let himself fall apart anywhere where Valdo could potentially see, so he forces himself to breathe through the rising tears.

It’s not until he’s back at his apartment that Jaskier lets himself begin to cry. Something about seeing the clothes he borrowed from Geralt lying by his bed and remembering how happy and hopeful he felt this morning when he got dressed pushes him over the edge. He curls up on his lumpy bed, tucks his head under his arms, and lets the anger and despair wash over him. He’s been so stupid. Stupid to think he could take on someone like Stregobor and win. Stupid to not do a better job of covering his tracks when he went poking around in Corvo Bianco.

Stupid to think he could actually make a difference. 

***

Geralt really shouldn’t be surprised when everything goes to shit. Between reconciling with Jaskier and finally making things right with Ciri, things seem to finally be going well. He passes his morning in a pleasant blur, struggling to focus on his work when what he really wants to do is replay the way Jaskier tasted and the soft, breathless noises he made against Geralt’s shoulder. 

When lunchtime rolls around, he thinks about the burger place down the street that Jaskier loves. Geralt’s never cared for it, but Jaskier can’t get enough of its greasy fries and enormous milkshakes. He heads over to Jaskier’s cubicle to see if Jaskier wants to grab lunch with him. He expects to find Jaskier bent over his computer, head most likely bobbing along to a song in his head, but instead Jaskier’s desk is empty. The computer is turned off and all Jaskier’s knick knacks, even the long-dead potted plant, are gone.

Geralt’s heart sinks just as an acidic voice says behind him, “I guess you haven’t heard?”

He turns and finds Essi standing at the door to her cubicle. Her eyes are red from crying. “What happened?”

Her mouth twists. “Jaskier got fired this morning. Something about going to Corvo Bianco to research the Shrike story? I don’t know the details, since he apparently doesn’t tell me things anymore.”

“Fuck.”

“Don’t worry, your job is safe. Foltest apparently vouched for you and the Countess wasn’t about to fire her best crime beat reporter.” The sarcastic lilt to her voice makes it clear what she thinks of that estimation. “Why were you in Corvo Bianco with Jaskier?”

“We were interviewing the Shrike’s stepmother.” Geralt needs to get to Jaskier, who is probably devastated right now. Despite all the bitching he did about being stuck on the entertainment beat, he really loved his job. “Where is he now?”

“I don’t know, probably back at his apartment, licking his wounds. I’ve tried calling him a couple of times, but he won’t answer. How did this happen?”

Geralt shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

She makes a noise like an angry cat. “You know, when Jaskier and you first started dating, I thought you were perfect for him. You stuck with him through all the stuff with the Ghoul, which would have been enough to send most people running. You really seemed to love him. Shani always thought you were hiding something, but Shani doesn’t trust anyone as far as she can throw them. But you always seemed so harmless with your glasses and your khakis. And then you had to go and break his heart.”

“I didn’t—”

Essi holds up a finger to silence him. “I’ve known Jaskier since we were eighteen. He doesn’t pine. Sure, he’ll whine and wax poetic after someone dumps him, but I’ve never seen anyone break his heart like you did. He’s been a whole different person these last six months.”

“Essi—”

“And now you get him fired! Isn’t it bad enough that you’ve taken the last three years of his life, you had to take his job from him too?”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Geralt says softly.

“That doesn’t make it any better.” She jabs him in the chest. “I saw the hickey on his neck this morning. Are you two back together?”

There’s no point denying it. “Yes.”

Essi looks like she might punch him. “And Yennefer? Are you still keeping her on the side?”

Geralt snorts. “No one keeps Yennefer on the side. I never slept with her. This was all a misunderstanding.”

“Of course it was. Some big misunderstanding where you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I never said that I didn’t do anything wrong,” Geralt says. “Can you do me a favor?”

She laughs bitterly. “Oh, you’re fucking joking.”

“Tell Foltest that Ciri had an emergency at school and I had to go take care of it. I need to go make sure Jaskier is okay.”

Essi looks like she must argue, but she grits her teeth and says, “Fine. But, Geralt?”

“If you’re going to tell me not to hurt him again, I won’t.”

“No, I was going to tell you that if you hurt him again, you should remember that I’m dating a med student. I helped her study for all her exams. I have a thorough knowledge of the human anatomy and if I ever see Jaskier cry over you again, I will put that knowledge to use to fucking end you.”

Geralt’s lips twitch. He always liked Essi; he hopes they can get to a point someday where she counts him as a friend again. “Understood.”

“I’m not joking. I know where every single one of your arteries are located.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Geralt turns away. He’s sure she could come up with a dozen other threats of equal gravity, but he doesn’t have time for them right now. The only thing he cares about right now is getting to Jaskier.

***

Jaskier must cry himself to sleep, because when he wakes up, his eyes are crusty and sore and his head aches. On his nightstand, his phone is vibrating, but he doesn’t pick it up. It’s probably Essi, and he really doesn’t want to have the conversation he’s sure she intends to have. He goes to the kitchen to scrounge up something to eat. It’s only when his bare feet hit the vinyl floor of the kitchen that he realizes how cold his apartment is; he must have left the window open. He turns to check and freezes.

There are three men standing in his apartment. Two of them are Standard Issue Hired Muscle: bulky builds crammed into ill-fitting suits, meaty fists, and faces twisted into unpleasant scowls. But it’s the man standing between them that makes Jaskier’s blood run cold. It’s the sorcerer who attacked them yesterday. Yennefer’s prediction that he would be out of commission for some time was wrong; there are healing burns on his neck and arms, but he looks fully capable of crushing Jaskier into dust.

“Those look nasty.” Jaskier nods to the burn marks. “Shouldn’t you be taking it easy? Don’t assassins get workers’ comp?”

The sorcerer’s face twists. “That bitch nearly killed me. I had a team of healers working on me all night.”

“And Stregobor sent you back out in the field? Damn. Do you guys have an HR department? Because that seems like a complaint waiting to happen.” Jaskier takes stock of his surroundings. His kitchen knives are so dull, he can barely chop onions. They won’t be effective weapons. None of his pots and pans are heavy enough to wield as a bludgeon. The most dangerous things in his kitchen are the containers of aging leftovers in the fridge.

“I volunteered.” The sorcerer takes a step towards him. “Your Witcher isn’t around to protect you right now. You’ll come quietly, or you’ll suffer. You should make this easy on yourself.”

Jaskier’s grin is pure bravado. “Look, we haven’t known each other for long, but you should know by now that I’m never quiet and I never make things easy on myself.”

“If you don’t cooperate, I could always leave your bloodied corpse for the Witcher to find.”

“Yeah, I don’t love that option.” The box of things Jaskier took from his desk sits on the countertop in front of Jaskier. He should have stolen a stapler from the office; he could have stapled the sneer right off the sorcerer's face. His eyes fall on the long-dead potted plant.

“What do you want?” he asks the sorcerer. “I imagine if you were going to kill me, you would have done it while I was asleep. Stregobor already got me fired today. What else does he want from me?”

“He wanted you home alone while your Witcher was at the office,” the sorcerer says.

Jaskier laughs. “Of course. Foltest didn’t save Geralt’s job. That idiot couldn’t save shit. Stregobor did. I’d sent him a fruit basket, if he hadn’t just gotten me fired. Don't really have the funds for fruit baskets anymore.”

“You got yourself fired when you stuck your nose someplace it shouldn’t be. You should have stuck with writing about mus—”

Jaskier seizes the potted plant and hurls it at the sorcerer’s face, then sprints for the door. He hears the pot shatter, but doesn’t look around to see if it hit its target. Frantically, he tries to push his dresser out of the way of the door, but it’s heavy. Geralt is right, he really does need to get rid of some of his clothes. He’s barely managed to move the dresser an inch when someone grabs him and slams him against the wall. It’s the slightly larger and uglier of the Standard Issue Hired Muscles.

“Hold him.” The sorcerer stalks towards them. His lip is bleeding; the potted plant hit its mark. Jaskier barely has time to feel smug about it when something tightens around his throat and chest. Jaskier gasps and wheezes, feeling like the air is being squeezed out of his lungs. He tries to struggle, but the hands holding him against the wall are like iron.

“Rience, he wants the kid alive,” Standard Issue Hired Muscle #2 says from behind the sorcerer, looking vaguely concerned, like he’s watching a suspenseful scene in a soap opera.

The pressure on Jaskier’s chest becomes crushing and he lets out a choked whimper. Abruptly, it’s gone and the air rushes back into Jaskier’s lungs. He goes limp and the man holding him lets him slide to the ground.

The sorcerer, Rience, crouches down to look into Jaskier’s face. His eyes glitter with malice. “That’s going to be your only warning, you little shit. Try to escape, scream for help, so much as look at me funny, and I will make you hurt. I have an extensive imagination. You don’t want to see it put to use. Nod if you understand me. Don’t talk. I don’t want to hear your fucking voice anymore.”

Heart hammering, Jaskier nods.

Rience sneers. “See? You can be quiet with the right motivation. You two, grab him. If he struggles, break his arm.”

The two other men seize Jaskier by the arms and haul him to his feet. Rience studies Jaskier for a moment, then punches him in the face. It’s not much of a punch, but Jaskier wasn’t expecting it. He bites down on his tongue and coppery blood fills his mouth. He spits a mouthful of blood at Rience’s feet, which earns him a punch in the stomach.

“You’ve made your point,” Jaskier wheezes. “Can we just get this kidnapping over with, please?”

“I needed to make you bleed a little,” Rience says. “Provide your Witcher with some motivation.”

“Whatever you want him to do, this is the wrong way to go about doing this. He gets very stabby when people threaten me.”

Rience gets close enough that Jaskier can smell the sourness of his breath and the herbal tang of the healing salve on his burns. “You better hope that’s not the case, because the Witcher has until the end of the week to bring Stregobor the Shrike’s head, or we’re going to send him yours.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defense, I did warn you.
> 
> For those of you who haven't read the books, Rience is a Nilfgaardian sorcerer who gives Dandelion (Jaskier) a bad time in _Blood of Elves._ I wanted someone from canon to play the role of Sinister Assassin, and he drew the short straw.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Jaskier is kidnapped, Geralt and Yennefer frantically try to get him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments on the last chapter! I really appreciate all of you.

The open window doesn’t alarm Geralt; it’s not unusual for Jaskier to forget to close his window all the way, even when the weather is miserable. Many nights, Geralt has passed Jaskier’s apartment while on patrol, noticed the window wide open, and had to fight back the urge to stick his head in and demand to know if Jaskier is actively trying to get himself killed. Geralt steps through the window, carrying two bacon cheeseburgers with fries and chocolate milkshakes. “Jask, I brought burgers!” he calls, before pausing.

The dead potted plant that Jaskier kept on his desk for forever, refusing to believe it had actually died, is lying shattered on the ground. In itself, that wouldn’t be too concerning. More alarming are the drops of blood splattered next to the shards of ceramic.

“Jaskier?” Geralt feels the first prickle of worry. Maybe Jaskier just cut himself when he dropped the plant. Slowly, he scans the apartment. Jaskier’s bed is unmade, the clothes he borrowed from Geralt the night before puddled on the ground. The bathroom door is ajar; he’s not in there. He’s not in the kitchen, though the fridge door is slightly open (again, not unusual for Jaskier.) Geralt’s eyes fall on the dresser in front of the door. It’s been moved several inches since the last time he was here, and it’s been pulled out from the wall. Like Jaskier was trying to get to the door.

There’s another small splatter of blood in front of it.

Geralt drops the lunch he brought for them. He hears one of the milkshakes splatter and knows he just made a mess, but he doesn’t give a shit. “Jaskier!” He rushes across the room, looking around wildly, as if he could have possibly missed Jaskier in a two hundred square foot apartment. As if Jaskier wouldn’t have appeared the moment he heard the word “burgers.”

He’s already texting Yennefer as he rushes down Jaskier’s fire escape, scanning the alley for any more blood or worse, a crumpled body. _“I need a locator spell for Jaskier."_

Her reply comes as he rushes down the street, scanning the parked cars. Maybe he just missed Jaskier being taken. Maybe Jaskier is still close. _“What happened?”_

Geralt looks around for a head of dark hair and a jewel-colored v-neck. He listens for the sound of Jaskier’s voice, raised in fear or indignation, but there are too many cars driving by and too many people. Why are there so many people in this fucking city who aren’t Jaskier?

“Geralt!”

He turns to see Yennefer, standing behind him on the sidewalk.The pedestrians around her seem mildly miffed to have had a sorceress portal into their path. She takes no notice of them.

“What’s going on?” she demands.

Geralt swallows back his rage and panic. “Someone took Jaskier.”

***

After Rience and the other two men shove Jaskier into the backseat of a car they had idling in the alleyway next to his apartment, Jaskier expects to be taken to Stregobor Tower. Stregobor Tower, he could deal with. There will be witnesses; he can always scream for help if necessary. But as the car drives over the Vizimir Bridge out of Novigrad, he can feel his nervousness edging towards panic.

“If you’re looking for a place to hide my body, you really shouldn’t have left Novigrad,” he tells his three captors, a hysterical edge to his voice. “Dumpsters, sewers, the river. You’re not going to find that many options anywhere else.”

None of them answer. The two Standard Issue Hired Muscles don’t talk much and Rience is making a point of ignoring Jaskier while scrolling through his phone.

“Where exactly are you taking me?” Jaskier asks.

“Shut up,” Rience snaps.

“Should I bother begging for my life?”

“You should beg to keep your tongue.”

“Look, you turn this car around now, the Witcher never has to hear about this. And Yennefer! You want to keep what’s left of your skin intact? You don’t want Yennefer to know about—”

Rience raises a hand. Jaskier braces himself for the choking trick (which Rience has pulled two more times since they left the apartment; it seems to be a favorite of his.) Instead, the car door flies open and Jaskier is jerked to the side, so that his upper body is hanging out of the car. They’re going a good sixty miles an hour over the bridge and the wind buffets his face. Jaskier has never been one for motion sickness, but his stomach gives a sick lurch.

“I could always tell Stregobor that you tried to escape and it went badly.” He can barely hear Rience’s voice over the wind and his own thundering heartbeat. “I didn’t even realize what was happening until you’d already jumped out of the car and little pieces of you were scattered over the last quarter mile. Nod if you’re listening.”

Frantically, Jaskier nods. His face is perilously close to the pavement the car is speeding over.

“If you say another word, fragments of your skull will decorate the Vizimir Bridge. Understood?”

Jaskier nods again. His mouth is too dry to speak, even if he wanted to. To his relief, he’s dragged back into the car and forced into his seat. The door slams shut and Rience goes back to his phone while the two bodyguards stare Jaskier down. Jaskier sits very still, hoping they don’t notice that he’s breathing too fast and his hands are shaking. He doesn’t say another word as the suburbs of Novigrad become the rolling hills of the Redanian countryside, though he tries to keep track of every turn they make, in case he has to make a daring escape later.

He looks over at Rience and sees the sorcerer watching him with those dark eyes. He remembers the words hissed in his ear back at the apartment. _“ I have an extensive imagination. You don’t want to see it put to use.”_ If he decides to make a daring escape, he’ll have to do it when Rience isn’t around. Jaskier doesn’t want to know what it looks like when the sorcerer decides to escalate from choking and threatening to throw him out of moving cars.

When they turn off the road and down a long, narrow driveway, Jaskier is almost relieved, even though he has no idea what to expect from their destination. He doesn’t want to be in close quarters with Rience anymore. They pull up in front of a brick manor house with ivy crawling up the sides and Jaskier lets himself be pulled out of the car. This house doesn’t look like somewhere a nosy journalist would be taken to be tortured and killed, he tries telling himself. There are flower boxes in the windows and a bird bath in the garden. Someone lives in this house. But there are no other houses in sight and no other cars in the driveway; he’s officially in the middle of nowhere. When he screams--and he has a feeling there will be screaming at some point--no one will hear him.

When Rience shoves him through the front door into a cavernous foyer, Jaskier finds blood stains on the marble floor. He feels his knees go weak and he wonders if he’s about to be slaughtered right here, with his blood adding to the mess. “Not the decorating choice I would make,” he says, voice too high-pitched for the casualness he was trying for. “But it certainly sets the mood. Do you mind me asking what happened here?”

“I do,” Rience snaps and Jaskier feels a gentle pressure on his throat. Not enough to actually choke him, but enough to remind him that he’s only breathing because the sorcerer allows it.

For the first time, it occurs to Jaskier that Geralt might not be able to get him out of this. When they dragged him out of his apartment, he expected Geralt to be waiting on his fire escape to kick his attackers’ asses. Every stop sign and red light on the way out of the city, he expected the car door to fly open and for Geralt to reach in to pull him to safety. When they arrived at their destination, he expected Geralt to be lying in wait. But they’re here now, in this enormous bloodstained house, and Geralt is nowhere to be seen. He probably doesn’t even know where Jaskier is. He’s probably still at work, with no idea that anything is wrong.

No one is coming for Jaskier.

Rience seizes Jaskier by the upper arm and drags him down a hallway. Jaskier doesn’t struggle. In a fair fight, he’d be a match for Rience, but he doubts the sorcerer would fight fair. And even if Jaskier did overpower him, there’s the two very large hired goons trailing behind them. So Jaskier lets himself be pulled into a study. He looks around wildly, taking in the bookshelves of important-looking books, the mahogany desk, the uncomfortable looking armchairs next to the stone fireplace.

“Sit.” Rience shoves him into one of the armchairs.

Jaskier’s eyes dart to the fireplace pokers, which are within arm’s reach.

“Don’t even think about it,” the sorcerer growls.

“Think about what?” Jaskier asks innocently.

Rience’s expression twists into a snarl, but he’s interrupted when the study doors open and Stregobor strides in. The vicious expression immediately falls off Rience’s face and he steps back, away from Jaskier. Some of the tension releases from Jaskier’s shoulders, even though he doubts he’s in any less danger from Stregobor than he is from Rience.

“Apologies for the mess, Jaskier,” Stregobor says in a warm voice, like Jaskier is an old friend who just dropped by unexpectedly for afternoon tea. “There was an unpleasant incident last night.”

“Looks like it.” Jaskier is very aware of Rience moving to stand directly behind his chair as Stregobor settles into the armchair across from him. There’s no way to keep an eye on both sorcerers at the same time.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you face to face,” Stregobor says. “I thought it was time that you and I had a little chat.”

“Did you? I think I got your message loud and clear when you tried to have me killed yesterday.” Jaskier may be scared shitless, but that’s never stopped him from running his mouth before. “If your plan is to use me to lure Geralt to his death, you’re wasting your time. He’s not going to fall for an obvious trap like this.”

Stregobor's smile doesn't reach his eyes. “Jaskier, if I wanted you dead, you would be dead.”

“I’m pretty sure you wanted me dead yesterday, and here I am. Still kicking. I’m surprised you trusted Rience today, given how spectacularly he fucked things up yesterday.”

“I believe in giving people chances to redeem themselves,” Stregobor says. “Which is what I’m offering Geralt. I’m disappointed by his lack of follow-through. I thought he and I had come to an agreement when we last spoke. I thought we were seeing eye to eye. Instead, he’s attempted to undermine me at every turn. But I may have been hasty when I sent Rience after him. He still has five days to meet my deadline.”

“And I’m sure your change of heart has nothing to do with the fact that your foyer looks like a slaughterhouse.”

Stregobor gives Jaskier a long, calculating look. “The Shrike paid me a visit last night. We knew she would try something like this sooner or later, so we tried to lay a trap for her. Unfortunately, she escaped after killing seven of my men.”

“So you need Geralt again,” Jaskier says. “Aren’t you glad Rience is incompetent?”

“You little fucker.” Rience’s voice is so soft, Jaskier can barely hear it.

Jaskier’s fists curl in his lap. “Geralt’s not going to kill Renfri for you. He’s not an assassin.”

“Not even to save your life?”Stregobor asks.

A chill races down Jaskier’s spine. “No, not even to save my life.”

“So, I guess I should just kill him?” Rience takes a step towards Jaskier, who wonders if he’ll have time to grab one of the pokers, and if it will even matter. He’s in a room with two sorcerers.

“No, because he’s wrong,” Stregobor says. “I saw the look in Geralt’s eyes when I threatened you, Jaskier. The threats against Cirilla and Yennefer made him angry. The threats against you frightened him.”

“Well, you already got me evicted and fired. Killing me seems a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

“No harm will come to you, so long as the Witcher does exactly as I ask.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Jaskier doesn’t know why he asks the question; he already knows the answer.

“There’s no need to get into such unpleasantness right now,” Stregobor says. “Suffice to say, it will benefit us all if Geralt kills the Shrike. Let me explain your situation, Jaskier. You’re in my home. Legally, my address is a very nice loft in downtown Novigrad. Few know that this house exists.”

“Renfri knows.”

“And do you think the Shrike is going to come to your rescue?”

“She might.” Jaskier shrugs. “We were on our way to being friends, before she stabbed my boyfriend.”

“Even if the Shrike does come for you, or she tells the Witcher where you are, this house has more security than the king’s castle. Geralt would have to get through layers upon layers of protection spells, several unpleasant surprises we have strategically placed outside for unwanted visitors, and a highly trained security detail. The Shrike would have no issues with the protection spells, of course, but that’s what the security detail is for.”

“What’s left of your security detail,” Jaskier adds helpfully.

Stregobor’s lips thin. “And we will of course be taking precautions to ensure that no one removes you from the property by force.”

“What pre—” Jaskier’s voice cuts off as something encircles his throat. There’s a click and his hands fly upwards to find a metal collar that Rience just placed around his neck. “What the fuck is this?”

“The precaution,” Stregobor says. “If you attempt to leave this house, or if someone tries to take you, that collar will tighten until you die either by asphyxiation or a broken neck. Rience and I are the only ones who can remove it. If anyone else tries, it will kill you. Don’t touch it, Jaskier. Fiddling with it could set off the magic.”

Jaskier lets his hands fall to his lap. The collar is heavy and cold against his skin.

Stregobor must see the defeat in his expression, because the sorcerer smiles. “Now that that’s settled, why don’t we give the Witcher a call? I think he’ll be happy to see your face.”

***

“The tracking spell’s not working.” Yennefer drops the clump of brown hair she retrieved from Jaskier’s hairbrush.

“Try again,” Geralt tells her.

She shoots him an annoyed look. “That’s the third time I’ve tried. Tracking spells aren’t like wine. They don’t get better with age.”

“What would stop the tracking spell from working?” Ciri sits on the edge of Jaskier’s bed, face pale. Geralt expected tears when, worried she would be the next to disappear, he pulled her out of school early and told her what happened, but she’s keeping her composure admirably.

“The hair might not be fresh enough,” Yennefer says. “Since he’s been gone all weekend, he might not have used this brush in a few days.”

“Or wherever he’s being kept could be warded.” Geralt meets Yennefer’s eyes and a silent agreement passes between them: they won’t mention the third reason the tracking spells could be failing.

But Ciri reads it in their expressions. “Or he could be dead.”

Geralt closes his eyes. It’s been two hours since he realized Jaskier was missing. Anything could have happened to Jaskier since this morning. Even if he’s not dead, he could be hurt. He could be scared. And Geralt can’t get to him. Only a few hours ago, Jaskier was safe with Geralt in bed, his head tucked against Geralt’s shoulder, his breath tickling Geralt’s skin as he laughed. They should have just stayed in bed all day. Geralt should have seen this coming. He shouldn’t have let Jaskier out of his sight.

“Stregobor needs Jaskier alive if he wants to use him as a hostage for Geralt,” Yennefer tells Ciri. “He’s going to try to force Geralt to kill the Shrike. All his other threats didn’t work, so kidnapping Jaskier is a last resort.”

“So what do we do?” Ciri looks between Geralt and Yennefer. “Find the Shrike?”

“It’s not that simple,” Geralt says. “Even if I do what Stregobor wants, he won’t let Jaskier or me live. We know too much.”

The room falls into grim silence, broken only when Geralt’s phone vibrates. He goes cold all over when he sees it’s a call from an unknown number. He answers and Jaskier’s face appears on the screen. The knot of terror in Geralt’s chest loosens slightly. Jaskier looks unharmed, except for a swollen lip. There’s a chunky metal collar around his throat. Geralt isn’t sure what it does, but he doubts it’s anything pleasant.

“Hey, honey. You’ll never believe the day I’m having.” Jaskier’s eyes are filled with barely suppressed panic.

“Are you okay?” Geralt asks as Yennefer and Ciri come to stand on either side of him. Ciri makes a small noise in the back of her throat and Yennefer reaches around Geralt to put her hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“I’m great. Peachy. Who would have thought that getting fired would be the second shittiest thing to happen to me today?” Jaskier tries to smile, but it’s shaky.

“Put Stregobor on the phone,” Geralt growls. If he has to look at Jaskier’s pale, scared expression for another instant, he might put his fist through a wall.

Jaskier angles the phone upwards so Geralt can see the two men standing behind him. One is Stregobor, looking so smug that Geralt wants to reach through the phone screen and throttle him. The other one is the sorcerer who tried to kill Geralt and Jaskier the day before. The skin on his hands and throat is covered in healing burns and he’s staring down at Jaskier with undisguised malice. Yennefer clutches Geralt’s arm with the hand that isn’t on Ciri’s shoulder.

“If you let him go, I won’t kill you,” Geralt tells Stregobor.

“Funny,” Stregobor says. “I was just about to tell you that if you do what I say, I won’t kill him.”

“I keep telling you, I’m not an assassin.”

“But you haven’t had motivation like this before. I realized I was going about this the wrong way. I was treating this like a business transaction, when men like you only understand blood and violence. So I’m going to make this simple for you. The end of the month is five days from now. If you don’t bring me the Shrike’s head in the next five days, I’m going to have Rience here reach into Jaskier’s mind and find his deepest, darkest fear, the most terrible way he could possibly think to die. And that’s how Rience will kill him.”

Jaskier closes his eyes and Yennefer’s grip on Geralt’s arm tightens. They all know what horrible death Rience will find in Jaskier’s head: being stretched out on a table, unable to move or speak as he’s slowly, methodically carved to pieces.

“Do we understand each other, Witcher?” Stregobor’s voice is so soft that Geralt can barely hear it.

“Yes.” Geralt can’t look away from Jaskier’s face.

“Good. I’m glad we’re finally on the same page. We’ll be in touch.”

Jaskier’s eyes snap open. “Geralt, he’s just going to kill me either way. Don’t—”

The call ends.

“Stregobor’s going to make him pay for that,” Yennefer whispers, face ashen. 

“Fuck.” It’s tempting to throw the phone across the room, but it’s his only link to Jaskier.

“What now?” Ciri asks.

Geralt forces his panic and desperation to a corner of his mind. He can’t afford to let his emotions get the better of him right now. “Yenn, do you think you could get me an address of a Black Sun Industries employee?”

“I would have to make a couple of calls,” Yennefer says. “But I should be able to.”

“Good,” Geralt says. “There’s someone I need to go see.”

***

Most of Geralt’s evenings are spent lurking in darkened alleys and on rooftops, but that doesn’t make him feel any less sketchy as he lurks in this particular alleyway. It doesn’t help that he’s in Silverton, a neighborhood populated mostly by grad students and young professionals, not far from the rowhouse Jaskier shared with eight other people when they first met. He sticks to the shadows, not wanting to alarm any of the young women walking by. 

Luckily, it doesn’t take long for Marilka to hurry past his hiding place. She’s wearing a pair of sensible sneakers, her stiletto heels dangling from her fingers by their straps. The bubbly expression she wore last time they met is gone; she looks almost haggard.

“Marilka,” Geralt calls softly.

Marilka yelps and drops her shoes. Her eyes go wide when she sees him standing in the alleyway, before recognition dawns. “Geralt?”

“Sorry to startle you,” he says.

“You didn’t startle me!” It’s a lie; even with his normal human senses, he can sense her unease.

“I need to talk to you.” He tries to keep his posture open and his hands visible so she’ll see he's not holding any weapons.

Marilka picks up her shoes and steps into the alley, apparently heedless of the dangers of following a man she barely knows into a darkened alleyway. Or, not heedless--he notices that she’s changed her grip on the shoes, holding them as if to jab the heels into his eyes if he tries anything. It wouldn’t do her much good, since he’s so much taller than her, but he doesn’t feel the need to point that out.

“I don’t have any candy,” she says.

Geralt blinks. “What?”

“When Dr. S sent me to pick you up that one time, you told me to bring candy next time, remember?” She grins mischievously, as if pleased to be able to share an inside joke. “Though you’re the one luring me into darkened alleys, so maybe you’re the one who should have candy.”

“I’m not luring you anywhere.” Geralt takes a step back from her, hoping he looks nonthreatening. “I need your help.”

Marilka’s head cocks. “Do you need another meeting set up with Dr. S?”

“I need to know where Stregobor would keep a prisoner.”

“A prisoner?”

“He’s taken a friend of mine captive. The room he was being held in looked like an office of some sort, with bookshelves and a fireplace. I need to find him, before they hurt him.”

“I don’t know.” Marilka shakes her head. “Dr. S wouldn’t—”

“Marilka, you have to know that not everything at Black Sun Industries is on the up and up.”

She glances down at the ground. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

“Are you worried Stregobor would hurt you? Because I can keep you safe.”

“What about my job? Could you keep that safe?” She’s not smiling anymore. There’s no trace of mischief. “I’m not going to get an opportunity like this again. I didn’t graduate college. I’m not good at a lot of things. It's a good job. Even though, yeah, I know that when Dr. S hired me for my spirit, he really hired me because he likes the way I look in a skirt.”

“That says more about him than it does about you,” Geralt says gently. “Stregobor never needs to know that you’re the one who helped me. But I know he trusts you.”

“It’s not so much that he trusts me. He just thinks I don’t notice things.” Her lips twist bitterly.

“But you do. Which is why I think you know where he’d be keeping a prisoner.” When she doesn’t say anything, Geralt adds, “His name is Jaskier. You would probably like him. Everyone likes him, because he’s funny and charming. He went to Oxenfurt to study music and journalism, instead of business, like his parents wanted. He managed to charm his way into a job at the Press. All he wants is to help people, and if I don’t assassinate someone for Stregobor, Stregobor is going to have Jaskier tortured to death. He’ll die horribly, and I can’t let that happen. So please, if you know something, tell me.”

Marilka glances around, as if to make sure they’re alone. “Dr. S doesn’t actually live in his loft near the Tower. He goes there every day after work and portals to his actual house, in the country, not far from Tretogor. Not a lot of people know about it. My boss has been there and she says it’s a beautiful old mansion, practically a castle. I ordered him a new mattress today and had it sent there.”

“So you know the address?”

She hesitates, then nods.

“There will be other jobs, Marilka,” he says. “My friend, Yennefer, has a magic shop in Hierarch Square. She could use some help around the store. I can put in a good word for you.”

In fact, Yennefer has been strongly opposed to hiring any kind of help at the store, preferring to do everything herself, and will probably kill Geralt with her bare hands when she learns about this, but that’s tomorrow’s problem.

“But you won’t tell Dr. S I’m the one who told you?” Marilka asks.

“Of course not.”

She takes a deep breath. “Okay, I can give you the address.”

***

Jaskier expected to be locked up in a dungeon or left chained to a chair, but instead the room where he’s been stewing for the last few hours is a pleasantly bland guestroom. The bed is comfortable enough, the windows offer a nice view of Stregobor’s property, and he even has his own bathroom. Of course, every time he tries to go near the windows or door, he’s pushed backwards by a spell, but it’s better than sitting in his own shit in a rat-infested cellar for the next five days.

Jaskier paces the length of the room, too full of restless energy to even try to sleep. There are no books or a TV to entertain him. His only human contact since Stregobor threw him in here was Rience bringing him dinner. Rience watched him eat, tossing a little ball of flame between his hands and not saying a word. It was enough to ruin Jaskier’s appetite and he barely ate half his dinner, which he now regrets. His stomach is cramped with an awful mixture of hunger and fear.

All there is to do is pace, recount the conversation between Stregobor and Geralt, and try not to picture the hideous way Rience will kill him in five days, if Jaskier doesn’t get himself killed before then. He vacillates between utter panic, low-level dread, and complete numbness. Right now, he’s somewhere between dread and numbness. Of course this was all going to end with him getting kidnapped. Of course his role in this whole thing was going to be the bargaining chip used against Geralt. Jaskier doesn’t get to be the hero. He doesn’t even get to be the scrappy investigative reporter sidekick. Jaskier is going to sit in this room until Geralt either comes to rescue him or Stregobor and Rience decide to kill him. The collar around Jaskier’s neck is a heavy reminder of how impossible a rescue would be.

 _This is why Geralt pushed you away,_ a nasty, mocking little voice in Jaskier’s head tells him. _Because he knew you were weak and useless. He knew you would only end up getting yourself in trouble and he would have to save you. Again._

And he can’t shake the fear that this will put him back at square one with Geralt. It seems like a foolish, petty thing to worry about when he’s being threatened with an excruciating death, but he can’t help but dwell on it. If he manages to survive this, will they go back to Geralt lying to him and keeping him in the dark in the name of protecting him? Will Geralt try to push him away again, maybe even break up with him? Jaskier feels nauseated just thinking about it.

The miserable spiral of his thoughts is interrupted by the sound of an explosion outside.

Jaskier rushes to the window, but is pushed back by the wards. He cranes his neck to see the flickering light of flames dancing across the grass, but he can’t see the actual fire. Is that one of the nasty surprises Stregobor has for intruders? Jaskier’s heart plummets, thinking of the desperation and fury on Geralt’s face earlier. If he rushed to Jaskier’s rescue and got himself hurt, Jaskier will never forgive himself. He doesn’t see any blood or bodies in the grass, but he can’t see much. If he could only get a little closer to the window…

Footsteps pound down the hallway outside the door and Jaskier flinches back, but they pass by his prison. He strains his ears for any hints as to what’s happening--shouting, running, wails of agony--but there’s nothing. Jaskier’s heart is hammering so hard that it hurts. If Geralt was here to save him, wouldn’t he hear sounds of a fight? Or is Geralt dead outside from the explosion?

Jaskier waits for what feels like hours, not moving, barely even breathing. The house is silent around him and he wonders if everyone fled because of the explosion. Maybe the house has caught fire and he’s about to burn to death, trapped in this room. It’s probably a nicer end than whatever Stregobor and Rience have planned for him.

Anything is probably a nicer end than whatever Stregobor and Rience have planned for him.

***

Marilka wasn’t exaggerating when she told Geralt that Stregobor’s home was practically a castle. “How the fuck are we supposed to find Jaskier in there?” Geralt asks, eyeing the brick behemoth in front of them.

“Once we get inside the wards, I should be able to track him.” Yennefer scowls at the house like it’s an unruly customer who just got fingerprints on her glass display cases. "If not, we'll have to make someone talk. Come on, let's go get him back."

Geralt grunts in agreement and they make their way across the yard, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. They’re halfway to the house when Geralt takes a step and hears a click under his foot. He casts Quen just as the ground explodes under him, sending him and Yennefer flying backwards. Geralt lands on top of Yennefer and immediately scrambles to his hands and knees to check her for injuries.

“Are you okay?” Geralt demands. He can feel the heat of the flames beating against the back of his neck.

Yennefer blinks up at him, dazed but unharmed. “So much for the element of surprise.” Her voice is slightly too loud.

“More satisfying to go in guns blazing anyway.” Geralt pulls her to her feet.

She grins with vicious glee. “I take care of the spells, you deal with the guards.”

Through the flames, Geralt can see two figures running towards them. He draws his swords and goes to meet them. The first man draws a gun and Geralt casts Aard to knock it out of his hand, before bringing the hilt of his sword down on the man’s temple. As the man crumples to the ground, Geralt turns and finds the second man already unconscious at Yennefer’s feet. She meets Geralt’s eyes and smirks.

“Stregobor shouldn’t work his guards so hard,” she says. “Putting this one to sleep was pathetically easy.”

More guards are coming towards them and Geralt and Yennefer work in tandem to take them down. Geralt tries to incapacitate, not kill, though when one of the guards seizes Yennefer by the throat with one hand while drawing a gun with the other, Geralt runs him through without a moment’s hesitation. Yennefer rolls her eyes, as if to tell Geralt _“I had that, you dunce”_ and then sends the two guards sneaking up behind Geralt flying, as if to prove her point. Geralt nods his thanks.

As soon as they step into the foyer, Geralt smells the pungent stench of cleaning agents, with a trace of blood underneath. He goes cold. As another guard comes towards him, he seizes the young man and slams him against the wall, pressing one of his swords against the man’s stomach.

“The blood,” Geralt growls. “Whose is it?”

“What?” The man’s eyes flicker frantically between Geralt and the floor, which is spotless.

“I smell blood. Who was bleeding in this room?”

“The Shrike attacked last night, killed a bunch of us.” The kid is breathing hard, staring down at the blade pressed just under his belly button.

Some of the tension in Geralt’s shoulders loosens. “Where’s the man Stregobor is keeping prisoner?”

The guard just shakes his head.

“Where is he?” Geralt bellows and the kid flinches.

“Third floor, at the end of the hall.”

Geralt shoves him to the ground and runs up the stairs. He can hear Yennefer behind him, blasting more guards out of his path, which he’s grateful for. He's so focused on getting to Jaskier that he can’t concentrate on his surroundings. He can only think of the barely suppressed terror in Jaskier’s eyes during the phone call, Jaskier cuddled against him this morning, Jaskier’s body moving underneath his the night before. Stregobor will die for putting hands on Jaskier, but not tonight. Tonight, the only objective is getting Jaskier to safety.

They reach the last door on the third floor. Geralt reaches for it, but wards push him back.

“Yenn.” His voice cracks with desperation.

“I got it.” She places her hands against the wards and closes her eyes. Geralt keeps his eye on the hallway while she works, waiting for more guards, but no one comes. A shiver of unease travels down his spine. With all the people who tried to stop him from getting into the house, they should have met more resistance once they got inside.

The door swings open and Geralt pushes his fears aside, because Jaskier is right in front of him, looking shocked but unharmed. Yennefer opens a portal at the foot of the bed and Geralt grabs Jaskier around the waist. Jaskier says something, but the words are lost as Geralt pulls Jaskier through the portal. Yennefer follows them and they reappear in her shop.

“You’re back!” Ciri leaps to her feet, grabbing one of the many healing salves she has spread out over the counter.

“We’re okay,” Yennefer says. Her voice is still slightly too loud from the explosion. “None of us are hurt. Jaskier?”

Jaskier has his arms thrown around Geralt and his face pressed to Geralt’s shoulder. He's shaking, and Geralt thinks he may be crying, until Jaskier croaks, “The collar.”

Geralt’s hands fly to the chunky metal collar around Jaskier’s throat. It's warm under his touch. “What is it?”

Jaskier can only make a gasping noise. Geralt tries to pry his fingers under the collar, but it’s too tight.

“Fuck, Yenn, it’s choking him,” Geralt says.

Yennefer surges forward and puts her hand on the collar. She goes ashen. “Geralt, it’s the kind of spell that only the person who cast it can remove easily.”

“Could you remove it?”

“I could, but it would take time, and we don’t have time!”

Jaskier is wheezing, frantic eyes flickering between Geralt and Yennefer. He has Geralt in a death grip.

“Then what do we do?” Ciri asks.

“You return him to me, and he lives.”

They look up and see Stregobor’s lackey, Rience, standing in the doorway of the shop, an unpleasant sneer on his lips.

“Take off the spell,” Geralt snarls. “Take it off, or I will end you.”

Rience doesn’t look concerned. “And then the little shit dies. Stregobor and I are the only ones who can remove the collar. We’re also the only ones who can stop it from choking the life out of him.”

Geralt looks at Yennefer for confirmation. She nods.

Jaskier looks up at Geralt. He’s mouthing Geralt’s name, but no sound is coming out. There’s a plea in his eyes.

“Another minute, and he’ll lose consciousness,” Rience says, still smirking. “Not long after that, there will be permanent brain damage, then death. Make a choice, Witcher.”

Geralt can’t hand Jaskier over to Rience. He can’t let him die. He can’t do anything.

“Do you want to die, Jaskier?” Rience asks in a mocking sing-song tone.

Jaskier shakes his head, eyes locked on Geralt’s.

“There you have it, Witcher. The kid wants to live.”

Geralt looks back at Yennefer, and sees his hopelessness reflected back in her face. He turns to press his forehead against Jaskier’s. “I love you,” he whispers. “I’m going to get you out of there. I’m going to save you. I promise.”

Jaskier’s hands cup his face. His gaze is growing hazy and unfocused.

“Here.” Gently, Geralt hands Jaskier off to Rience. “If he gets so much as a scratch on him—”

“Oh, fuck off, Witcher.” Rience presses a finger to the collar and Jaskier sucks in deep, frantic breaths. “You pull another stunt like this, and I’ll rip his tongue out myself.”

“Geralt—” Jaskier says breathlessly, but Geralt never learns what he has to say before Rience opens a portal behind them and Jaskier is gone.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! There are three chapters left after this. Chapters 13 & 14 will get regular Tuesday updates. Chapter 15 will most likely be a shorter chapter to wrap things up, so will probably only be posted a few days after chapter 14.
> 
> Also, please don't be surprised/concerned if chapter are posted later in the day from here on out. I may be going back to work next week, though nothing has been decided yet. If that happens, chapters probably won't be posted until after dinnertime (eastern US time.)


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt chooses the lesser evil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: brief allusion to an implied suicide. If this is a trigger for you, skip the paragraph that begins "It's his eighth birthday."

Yennefer keeps her shop closed for the next two days. As long as she keeps herself busy, she can settle into a comfortable sort of numbness. If she focuses on researching the collar, she doesn’t need to think about the look on Geralt’s face when Rience disappeared through the portal with Jaskier. If she’s on the phone with Triss, Tissaia, or Sabrina, she doesn’t have to relive the memory of Jaskier’s wheezes. If she daydreams about burning Stregobor’s face off, she doesn’t have to wonder what’s happening to Jaskier right now.

But it’s been two days and they’re no closer to figuring out how to save Jaskier. Yennefer and Ciri went patrolling with Geralt the night before, scouring the alleyways behind seedy nightclubs and lurking outside the homes of rumored predators, but the Shrike never showed her face. The only useful thing Yennefer has learned from all her phone calls is that the collar around Jaskier’s neck is probably the same model as the ones Black Sun Industries used to sell to prisons, before there were protests about human rights violations. Rience was telling the truth--there’s no way to safely remove the collar, not even if they kill whoever cast the spell. Any attempt to remove it by force will only lead to Jaskier’s death.

And while they flounder about blindly, trying to find a solution, anything could be happening to Jaskier.

With nothing else to do until the sun sets in a couple of hours and she can go searching for the Shrike again, Yennefer has to busy herself with tidying up her shop while Ciri is practicing magic upstairs. Yennefer’s apartment and the shop are both the cleanest they’ve ever been. She’s dusting off a display of fertility potions when there’s the tinkle of the door opening. Yennefer frowns and straightens up. That door should be locked and warded. Did Ciri forget to lock the door behind her when she came in this morning?

“We’re closed,” Yennefer calls.

There’s no answer.

Yennefer lets out a long, slow breath. Either she’s dealing with a truly oblivious, inconsiderate customer, or Stregobor has sent someone to kill or kidnap her. Either way, she doesn’t have the patience today. She steps around the display case and finds herself face-to-face with the Shrike. The first thing that strikes her about the younger woman is that she looks like a completely different person out of her Shrike costume, in a light blue hoodie. She’s not armed--or, she’s not carrying any visible weapons. The two women regard each other cautiously.

“I assume they didn’t teach you to read in the lab,” Yennefer says coolly. She hopes Ciri is busy trying to levitate rocks upstairs. “Because there was a ‘Closed’ sign on the door.”

Renfri’s lips quirk. “I can read, I just choose to ignore most of what I read.”

“What do you want? If it’s to stab Geralt again, he’s not here.”

“I wanted to talk to you, not the Witcher. I hear Stregobor took something of yours.”

Yennefer starts to say that Jaskier isn’t hers, but stops. Jaskier isn’t hers in the way he’s Geralt’s, but fuck if she doesn’t love that kid like the annoying younger brother she never wanted nor needed. She didn’t even like him at first. She thought he was too young for Geralt, too naive, too boundlessly enthusiastic. Too much. And she was jealous. Her romantic relationship with Geralt had been over for years, but they had settled into a comfortable friends with benefits situation and she feared that once the benefits were over, the friendship would be as well. But Jaskier adored Geralt without any conditions or reservations and watching the way Geralt came out of his shell the more time he spent with Jaskier was a revelation. And when Jaskier decided that he and Yennefer were friends, long before Yennefer was willing to admit it, she realized that being the recipient of his boundless affection was rather sweet.

“Jaskier,” Renfri clarifies, taking Yennefer’s silence as a sign of confusion.

Yennefer crosses her arms over her chest. “That doesn’t explain what you’re doing in my shop.”

“I want to help.”

“Help,” Yennefer says flatly.

“I never wanted anything bad to happen to Jaskier.”

“No, you just wanted to use him as a tool to get Geralt to do what you want. Just like Stregobor.”

“I’m nothing like Stregobor.” Renfri's expression hardens. “I’m here because I thought you might be more willing to listen to me than the Witcher."

“Two people I care about are in terrible danger because of you, so I’m not sure what would give you that idea.”

“There’s a collar on Jaskier’s neck, isn’t there?” When Yennefer doesn’t answer, Renfri smiles grimly. “Thought so. Stregobor isn’t very good at coming up with new ideas. And I bet you have no idea how to safely get it off of him. If you try to remove it by force, it will kill Jaskier. If you help him escape, it will kill him. If you kill the person who cast the spell, it will kill him. The only thing that works is dimeritium. Neutralize the sorcerer who cast the spell, you neutralize the collar.”

“I don’t exactly keep a stash of dimeritium on hand.” Even saying the word makes Yennefer’s skin crawl. She’s had dimeritium used against her a few times, and she never wants to feel that powerless again.

“I do.” Renfri shrugs. “Just in case. I may be immune to magic, but a sorcerer could still bring a wall down on my head.”

“You don’t say.” The shelf Renfri is standing next to rattles threateningly.

Instead of looking scared, Renfri’s smile widens. “I’m here to help you get Jaskier back, Yennefer.”

“So long as we help you kill Stregobor?”

“Do you think Geralt or Jaskier will be safe as long as Stregobor is alive? And what about Ciri?”

Yennefer snatches one of the bottles of potion up and holds it like a bludgeon, crowding into Renfri’s space. “Do not talk about Ciri.”

Renfri stands her ground. “Do you think Stregobor will conveniently forget that you and Geralt are raising Calanthe Riannon’s granddaughter when this is all over? And that Ciri has the Lioness’s powers? I’m not a threat to her, but Stregobor is.”

“So you want to help,” Yennefer snarls. “How do you plan to help?”

“Get the Witcher to talk to me, and maybe we can figure out a way to get all of us out of this alive.”

***

It’s been two days, and Geralt can still feel Jaskier clutching at him, his breaths shallow and rasping against Geralt’s neck. He can still see the panic in Jaskier’s eyes and the way he mouthed Geralt’s name. There’s been no word from Stregobor or Rience. Jaskier could be dead for all Geralt knows, executed as retribution for Geralt trying to save him. He’s trying his best not to dwell on those thoughts and keep a brave face on for Ciri’s sake, but it’s getting harder the longer they go without proof of life.

Geralt strides across Pontar River Park, hands jammed into his pockets so he can feel that the flash drive he carries is still there. That morning, he got an email from an anonymous address, with the message: _“I did some digging around and found this. They tried to bury all records pertaining to Project Lilit, but they didn’t do a very good job. :)_ If Geralt wasn’t already fairly certain who his mysterious informant was, the smiley face would have given it away.

The attached files were surprisingly comprehensive, and Geralt wonders how Marilka ever got the idea that she’s not good at anything. She either has a promising future as a private investigator or a criminal mastermind. The files range from pay stubs for the doctors and tutors who attended to the Project Lilit subjects to logs of various experiments. There are even pictures of some of the test subjects, including one of a very young Renfri, staring at the camera with a haunted look in her brown eyes.

Geralt wouldn’t dare show any of this to Foltest or the Countess, not while Stregobor has Jaskier. This might be enough to sink Stregobor and Black Sun Industries, but he knows Stregobor’s retribution would be swift and painful. There’s only one person Geralt trusts to handle this information discreetly without doing anything to endanger Jaskier any further. He finds Detective Mousesack sitting on one of the benches overlooking the river, two cups of coffee in hand.

“It’s been a while,” Mousesack says, handing Geralt one of the coffees.

Geralt gratefully accepts the cup. “How have you been?”

“Oh, just fine. Marie sends her love.”

Geralt doubts that Mousesack’s wife has much love for Geralt after his breakup with Jaskier, but he just says, “Tell her I say hello.”

“What can I do for you, Geralt?”

Geralt hands him the flash drive.

“What’s this?” The detective’s brow furrows.

“Information about an experiment that Black Sun Industries conducted twenty years ago called Project Lilit,” Geralt says. “If we were dealing with anyone but Stregobor, it would be enough for a judge to sign an arrest warrant. Since it’s Stregobor, the best we can hope is to pillory him in the court of public opinion.”

The thing that Geralt likes best about Mousesack is that he’s been a cop for long enough that he’s pretty unflappable. He doesn’t even blink. “What is Project Lilit?”

“Human experimentation,” Geralt says. “They were trying to make magical supersoldiers, but it went badly. The only surviving test subject was the Shrike.”

That causes Mousesack’s eyebrows to quirk up. “And why are you giving this to me?”

“Because Stregobor has Jaskier and if neither of us survive, I want there to be someone else who has this information.”

Mousesack is quiet for a moment. “And why hasn’t Jaskier been reported missing?”

“Because as soon as I file that police report, he’s as good as dead. You know as well as I that Stregobor probably has informants in the police department.”

The detective doesn’t argue. “What would Stregobor want from Jaskier?”

“He wants the Shrike dead.”

“And he thinks Jaskier will kill her?”

“No, he thinks I will,” Geralt says. “Because I’m the Witcher.”

He’s not sure what reaction he’s expecting from Mousesack. Shock. Betrayal. Being slapped into handcuffs. What he’s not expecting is the flat, unimpressed look the detective gives him.

“You knew,” Geralt says.

“I’m a homicide detective, Geralt.”

“You never said anything.”

“Neither did you.”

“What gave it away?”

“Well, as delightful as Jaskier is, I had a hard time believing that two burly men would become preoccupied with his safety at the exact same time.”

“So you knew the whole time,” Geralt says. “You never told Jaskier, though.”

“I assumed he knew, up until the Black Knight business,” Mousesack says. “And after that, I decided that if you weren’t going to tell him yourself, you deserved to be dumped.”

Geralt winces. “Fair enough.”

“How did he even get involved in this?” The detective shakes his head.

“How does Jaskier ever get involved in anything?” Geralt gives him a quick rundown of everything that’s happened--from Renfri kidnapping Jaskier to Geralt’s own confrontations with Renfri to their trip to Corvo Bianco. By the time he finishes telling Mousesack about his failed attempt to save Jaskier from Stregobor’s home, the detective has gone pale.

“Stregobor is giving me until the end of the month to kill Renfri,” Geralt tells him. “If I haven’t brought him her head, Jaskier dies.”

“That’s only three days away.”

“I know.”

“I could get a warrant to search Stregobor’s home,” Mousesack says. “If Jaskier is still there—”

“Yennefer can’t find a way to get that collar off Jaskier’s neck without killing him. Even if you do find a judge who’s willing to risk making an enemy out of Stregobor, Jaskier would be dead as soon as the police show up.”

“So I can’t arrest Stregobor,” Mousesack says. “I can’t search his home. I can’t help you kill the Shrike, Geralt, if that’s what you want from me. She may be a murderer, but she deserves a fair trial, same as anybody.”

“I’m not killing the Shrike for Stregobor. I’m not the Butcher anymore. What I need from you is to hold on to this.” He taps the flash drive in Mousesack’s hands. “If Jaskier, Yennefer, and I don’t survive this, someone needs to have this information. And then there’s Ciri, Calanthe’s granddaughter. I adopted her after Calanthe died. If we don’t make it, she’ll need someone to look after her.”

“Of course. Anything for Calanthe.” Grief flashes across Mousesack’s face as he pockets the flash drive. “Bring Jaskier home safe, Geralt. There’s been enough death these past few months.”

Again, Geralt remembers Jaskier gasping for breath in his arms. “I’ll get him back. And if not, I’ll be sure to bring Stregobor down with us.”

***

Jaskier hasn’t left his bedroom prison in two days. The only people he’s seen are the guards who bring him his meals, none of whom are particularly chatty. Jaskier tries asking for books, crossword puzzles, or just something to do, but his requests are ignored. All he can do is sit and try not to lose his mind from fear and boredom. The bruises on his throat ache, but he’s afraid rubbing at them will trigger the collar’s magic again. But worse is the memory of the anguish on Geralt’s face when he couldn’t stop Jaskier from choking.

Jaskier is lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling when the door opens. He looks up, expecting another miscellaneous hired muscle, but instead it’s Rience who comes in with his dinner tray. Jaskier’s stomach gives an unpleasant lurch. He hasn’t seen Rience since the failed rescue attempt, and he liked it that way. The reality of his situation becomes too real whenever those cold dark eyes are fixed on him.

Most of the guards who bring Jaskier his meals wait while he eats, probably to make sure that Jaskier doesn’t fashion a weapon out of a boiled potato or a piece of cauliflower. But they normally don’t watch every bite he takes; they play on their phones or stare out the window. But Rience never takes his eyes off of Jaskier. By the time Jaskier is finished with his soup, his hands are shaking. It’s humiliating, but he can’t stop himself. If Rience is here instead of a guard, there must be a reason, and it probably isn’t a pleasant one.

“Surely Stregobor has more exciting things for you to do than watching me eat,” Jaskier snarks.

“I’m not here to watch you eat.”

Jaskier smiles to hide the chill that races down his spine. “Oh, I’m sorry, was I supposed to share? I’m an only child, you know. We’re not great at sharing.”

Rience makes a disdainful noise and stalks towards him. Jaskier refuses to cower, even though he wants nothing more than to scramble away.

“What do you want?” Jaskier asks.

“Three days until Stregobor’s deadline, and it doesn’t look like your boyfriend has made any headway,” Rience says.

Jaskier’s heartbeat stutters in his chest. “He really doesn’t like to be rushed.”

“And we don’t like to be kept waiting. Stand up.”

“I would rather not.”

Rience’s hands flex. “Do I really need to outline what happens if you don’t do what I say?”

Jaskier stands up, holding very still as the sorcerer circles around behind him. “What are you doing?” he asks in a croak.

“Just going to take a look through your mind, Jaskier. It will only take a minute.”

“Wait—” A shooting pain goes through Jaskier’s skull and his words dissolve into a gasp.

_It’s his eighth birthday and his Uncle Al is gifting him his first guitar. He plucks gently at the strings, enraptured by the sounds they make, while his mother says snippily, “It’s not you who he’s going to be keeping up all night with all that racket, Alfred.” Not even a month later, Jaskier’s father takes the guitar away when he catches Jaskier playing it while he’s supposed to be doing schoolwork. He doesn’t get it back for another three years, not until after Al dies. No one ever tells him what happened to Al, except for his mother telling him, “Your uncle would just get sad sometimes.”_

Rience’s hand is locked on the back of Jaskier’s head. He tries to pull away, eyes suddenly stinging with tears. He hasn’t thought about his favorite uncle in a long time.

_He’s sixteen and he’s standing up on stage at a school dance, serenading his girlfriend. He’s never told anyone that he loves them before and he wanted to make it a grand gesture, something they would always remember. He gets detention and his girlfriend texts him the next morning to break up with him. He never goes to another school dance._

“What does this have to do with anything?” Jaskier gasps.

_He’s twenty-two, standing pantsless in the middle of the Countess’s office while she tells him that this just isn’t working for her anymore. “We’re all adults here, Julian. I think we can handle this maturely. I just don’t see us being able to continue to work together and sleep together.” When he offers to quit his job just so they can stay together, she laughs._

_It’s six months ago, and he’s outside of Essi’s apartment, tears running down his face. He can only choke out the same word over and over again, “Why?” Geralt stands in front of him, looking lost and confused and so, so sad. Part of Jaskier wants to comfort Geralt, because he hates seeing that look on his face._

“There we are,” Rience says.

_He’s kneeling on the floor of a closet, heart hammering in terror while he listens to the sound of a fight outside the door. People are shouting. People are dying. He has no way of knowing if one of those people is Geralt and the thought makes him dizzy with fear._

“Stop,” Jaskier whispers.

_He’s twenty-three, sitting at his desk at the Press and being introduced to Geralt for the first time. Geralt has the most beautiful eyes he’s ever seen._

_He’s on the front steps of the old rowhouse where he used to live and Geralt is kissing him for the first time. He thinks his heart may beat out of his chest because Geralt’s calloused hands are gentle as they touch his face and his mouth feels amazing slotted against Jaskier’s._

No, this isn’t a memory for Rience. Jaskier tries to think about anything else.

_It’s the first time that Geralt and Jaskier ever sleep together. Jaskier’s fingers fumble as he unbuttons Geralt’s shirt. Geralt asks him in a low, husky voice, “Are you sure you want to do this?” and Jaskier can only laugh, because this is the surest he’s ever been about anything. He’s still wearing his orange hospital bracelet. The sight of it distracts him for a moment, but then Geralt kisses him again and he stops thinking about anything but Geralt’s lips and his hands._

“I think we missed something,” Rience says softly.

Oh, gods, no.

_Jaskier is stretched out on a table, trying desperately to move his limbs, but they’re too heavy. A pleasant, nondescript face hovers over his while the flat edge of a scalpel caresses his cheek. He’s more frightened than he knew it was possible to be. His eyes rove desperately, looking for an escape, and he tries to talk, tries to beg, but his lips won’t move and his tongue is too heavy and he’s going to die here._

“Good.” Rience’s voice is heavy with satisfaction.

_“You have such a lovely face. Perfect skin.” The Ghoul’s voice is almost genial as the scalpel begins to cut into the soft flesh under Jaskier’s chin. Jaskier is crying, choking on his own tears and snot. He knows he’s an ugly crier. The Ghoul likes pretty people. Maybe if he cries enough, the Ghoul will lose interest._

_He hears a noise in the doorway and his eyes dart to see a black-clad figure standing there, eerie eyes filled with fury as they stare at the Ghoul._

Rience’s hand pulls away and Jaskier crumples to the floor, head pounding. He kneels there, forehead pressed against his knees. The room is silent and he thinks Rience must have left until he finally looks up, eyes watering, and finds the sorcerer gazing down at him.

“You’ve lived an interesting life,” Rience says coolly.

Jaskier swallows. “If you wanted to know something, all you had to do was ask.”

“No, because I needed to know the best way to break your Witcher, and I know that wasn’t something you were going to tell me willingly.” Rience crouches down in front of Jaskier. “A lot of people have tried to kill you, Jaskier. I look forward to being the one who finally succeeds.”

***

When Geralt gets home, he’s not expecting to find Renfri sitting on his couch, scratching an ecstatic Roach behind the ears.

“Your dog likes me,” Renfri says by way of greeting. “Animals usually don’t like me.”

“She drinks from the toilet on a regular basis, so her taste is questionable,” Yennefer says primly. She’s sitting next to Renfri, arms crossed over her chest. “Geralt, Renfri decided to stop by my shop for a chat.”

Geralt quickly looks over Yennefer, ascertains that she’s not injured or in distress, and then glances at Ciri, who is standing by the window. Ciri is glaring daggers at the Shrike, but also seems unhurt. “We’ve been looking for you, Renfri.”

“I know.” Renfri lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Since I know what Stregobor wants you to do, I decided I’d rather approach you on my own terms.”

“What do you want?”

“To help.”

“Are you going to let Geralt cut your head off?” Ciri asks. “Because that would help.”

Renfri grins. “Your ward is downright bloodthirsty, Witcher. It’s adorable.”

Ciri’s face goes very red, but Geralt cuts off her reply. “Why would you want to help us?”

“Jaskier’s in trouble,” Renfri says. “I was serious when I told you that I don’t want him dead. And it might somewhat be my fault that he’s in this mess.”

“Somewhat?”

“I think we both know he would have found his way into Stregobor's crosshairs, with or without my help.”

She’s not wrong, so Geralt doesn’t argue. “More importantly, how can you help?”

“She knows how to neutralize the collar,” Yennefer says.

“Dimeritium,” Renfri adds. “You neutralize the person who cast the spell, and then you can take the collar off without it killing Jaskier.”

Geralt nods. “Dimeritium isn’t easy to find.”

“Luckily for you two, I have a couple of pairs of dimeritium handcuffs. Slap them on this Rience guy, and Jaskier will be safe.”

“How do we know Rience is the one who cast the spell?” Ciri is still eyeing Renfri suspiciously.

“Stregobor wouldn’t cast it himself and he wouldn’t have any of Black Sun Industries official employees cast it either,” Renfri says. “If the collar killed Jaskier, it could be traced back to Stregobor. But Rience is an off the books assassin. Stregobor hires people like him for this exact purpose.”

Again, Geralt thinks of Jaskier being strangled in his arms. “What do you get out of this, Renfri?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She cocks an eyebrow. “Stregobor dead. And before you say you’re not a killer, I know. Got the message loud and clear. But say you rescue Jaskier and leave Stregobor alive. You would spend the rest of your lives looking over your shoulder.”

“I have plenty of evidence about the existence of Project Lilit. Files, recordings, the diary of one of the subjects. I can stop him without killing him.”

“Don't be naive. Stregobor will bury any story you try to write, just like he did with Jaskier’s story. He has too many connections for charges to ever be filed. No judge will issue a warrant against him. And say by some miracle, he goes to jail or Black Sun Industries collapses. Do you really think that will make him not dangerous? You think he couldn’t hire an assassin from jail? You think he couldn’t reveal your identity even after losing his company?”

Geralt doesn’t say anything.

“So long as Stregobor lives, you and everyone you care about are in danger. You know that, Geralt. You may not be a killer, but you strike me as a man who will do anything to protect the people you care about. So protect them.”

“She’s right, Geralt,” Yennefer says softly. At Geralt’s surprised look, she shrugs. “As far as I’m concerned, Stregobor lost his right to keep breathing as soon as he put a hand on Jaskier. Your morals are admirable, but some people just need to die. Stregobor is one of them. He knows your true identity. He knows about Ciri. He’s too dangerous.”

“There will always be another bit of blackmail he could hold over your head,” Renfri says. “There will always be another assassin waiting. Men like Stregobor don’t play fair, Geralt. That means we can’t play fair either.”

Geralt tries to picture a world where Stregobor lives, either in a jail cell or as the disgraced CEO of a crumbling company. There’s no way he wouldn’t expose Geralt’s identity as revenge, probably landing Geralt in jail and putting Ciri, Yennefer, and Jaskier in danger. Even if they take Rience down with Stregobor, Rience can’t be the only dangerous person Stregobor has on his payroll. Renfi is right; there will be other assassins. With Geralt in a jail cell, he’ll be a sitting duck and Yennefer will have to protect Ciri and Jaskier on her own.

Two weeks ago, Stregobor told Geralt to choose the lesser evil and Geralt protested that it wasn’t up to them to decide what was the lesser evil. But that was before Geralt read the diary entries of a young girl who died for nothing. That was before Stregobor sent an assassin who nearly killed Jaskier right in front of Geralt. That was before Jaskier nearly choked to death in Geralt’s arms.

“If I help you kill Stregobor, you leave Novigrad and never come back,” he tells Renfri. He knows better than to make her promise to stop killing. She would never keep that promise, and he would kill Stregobor anyway.

“Done.” Renfri’s grin is lopsided. “We kill Stregobor, save your boyfriend, then we never have to see each other again.”

“Hm.” Something tells Geralt it won’t be that easy, but that’s a problem for after Jaskier is home safe.

His Witcher phone vibrates in his pocket and Geralt tenses. Only a few people have that number, and if any of them are calling him, it probably isn’t for anything good.

“Hello?”

“Geralt?” The voice is a hiss, so low that he can’t tell whether the speaker is male or female. For a brief, glorious instant, he thinks it’s Jaskier, but then the person continues. “Someone is following me.”

“Marilka?” Geralt makes eye contact with Yennefer, who is already on her feet and summoning a portal. “Where are you?”

“Near my place. Elm Street. I just got off the train. I noticed them right after I left the office, but I didn’t think anything of it.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

“Stay in a populated area. I’ll be right there.”

“Okay, I’ll—” Marilka lets out a little cry, there’s a crunching noise, and the phone goes dead.

***

Yennefer’s portal spits Geralt out on the rooftop of the building closest to the Elm Street subway station. He’s still putting on his Witcher mask when he emerges from the portal and he can feel the dose of potion he just chugged taking effect. He peers down at the busy street twelve stories below, scanning the pedestrians and the cars for any signs of Marilka. He’s the reason she’s in this mess, he knows. He drew her into it, just as surely as Renfri drew Jaskier in. If she dies, it will be on him.

And then he sees her, walking between two men. She’s not struggling. One of the men has his arm around her and Geralt doesn’t see a weapon, but he’s sure there’s one pressed against her ribs. There are two other men walking several paces behind them, both looking around as if searching the street for any threats. They’re probably keeping an eye out for him.

Geralt jumps from building to building, tracking Marilka and her attackers as they make their way down the sidewalk. They’re moving quickly. Marilka is looking down at the sidewalk and if it weren’t for his enhanced eyesight, Geralt wouldn’t be able to tell that she’s fighting back tears. As the men holding her steer her into an alley, he watches her try to twist out of their grasp, but they hold onto her. Geralt leaps onto the next rooftop and peers down into the alleyway.

“Please.” Marilka’s voice is thready with fear. “Please, you don’t have to do this.”

“Shut up.” The man holding her shoves her against the wall. She turns to face him, hands raised in surrender.

“Please,” Marilka says again. “This is just a misunderstanding.”

“I said, shut up!” The man points a gun at her face and Marilka begins to scream for help.

The rooftop Geralt is standing on is just a smidge too high for him to safely jump without consequences, but he does it anyway. He feels it in his knees when he lands--Yennefer is going to be pissed at him later--but he doesn’t let it slow him down. There’s no time for mercy when there’s a gun pointed at a woman’s head; he runs the man holding the gun through without hesitation. He sees movement out of the corner of his eye and casts Quen just as the second man fires his gun. The bullet ricochets off the shield and hits the man. He crumples, just as the two other men both tackle Geralt.

They’re both large men and the force of both of them hitting him at the same time causes him to lose his balance. He goes to his knees as one of them grabs his sword, trying to wrestle it out of his hand. Geralt draws his second sword and brings the hilt into the man’s groin. The man doubles over, wheezing, and Geralt takes the opportunity to grab his second attacker in a headlock. As the man gasps and sputters, Geralt slams his head against the other man’s repeatedly, until they both fall to the ground unconscious.

“Geralt!” Marilka cries and Geralt looks up.

The man who was shot by his own bullet is still alive, gun in hand. Said gun is pointed at Geralt’s head. Before Geralt can cast Quen, a pike comes sailing through the air and hits the gunman squarely in the eye with a terrible squelch. The gun falls from the man’s hand and he goes limp.

“Come on, Witcher,” Renfri drawls behind him. “You only saved me one?”

Geralt shoots Renfri an exasperated look over his shoulder as a trembling Marilka collapses into his arms. She’s unhurt, but she has that glassy look in her eyes of someone going into shock. Geralt pats her on the back and makes what he hopes are soothing noises.

Renfri looks at the girl with a raised eyebrow. “Well, this complicates things.”

***

“This is bullshit.” Ciri scowls up at Geralt.

Geralt puts her duffel bag into the trunk of Mousesack’s car, wedging it in next to Marilka’s absurd amount of luggage. “It’s best for you and Marilka to both get out of the city until this is all over.”

“But I can help! You said you were going to start letting me help!”

They’ve been having some variation of this argument repeatedly for hours, and Geralt is tired. “I said we were going to start small. Rescuing hostages and going up against billion-crown corporations is not small.”

Ciri blows a lock of hair out of her eyes. “I can’t just leave.”

“Yes, you can.” Gently, Geralt puts his hands on her shoulders. “Mousesack has all the evidence we need to take Black Sun Industries down. Marilka is a witness. Stregobor’s men can’t find them. You keep them safe, while Yennefer, Renfri, and I get Jaskier back.”

Her eyes fill with tears. “But what if something happens to you, and I’m not there?”

Something twists painfully in Geralt’s chest. “We’ll be okay, Ciri. Everything will be fine. But I need you to go with Mousesack and Marilka.”

Ciri’s jaw juts out, like she’s thinking of another argument.

“Marilka is scared.” Geralt nods to the other girl, who sits curled up in Mousesack’s passenger seat, staring at nothing. “She could use a friendly face.”

“You want me to be _friendly_?” Ciri sounds so incredulous that Geralt can’t quite smother his snort of laughter.

“Ciri, please,” he says. “Don’t think of this as me sending you away. Yennefer and I have a job to do, and so do you.”

“Mousesack’s a cop. He has a gun. He doesn’t need my protection.”

“Not necessarily true.” Mousesack detaches himself from his conversation with Yennefer, wearing a friendly smile. “Your grandmother saved my skin many times. I wouldn’t have survived my first year on the force without her.”

Ciri eyes him dubiously. “You knew Gran?”

“I did. We worked together for years. I have some stories about your grandmother.”

Ciri’s expression immediately brightens. “Funny ones?”

“Oh, you have no idea. Did she ever tell you about the time she got lost in the sewers under Cintra because she wouldn’t take the map Eist tried to give her?”

“Um, _no_.”

“Of course she didn’t. How about I tell you on the way?”

As Ciri cheerfully goes to say goodbye to Yennefer, Geralt thinks that the last six months would have been much easier had he had Mousesack around. After all, Mousesack has three children. “Thank you.”

“Kids at that age hate being babied, but they love embarrassing stories about the adults in their lives.” Mousesack shrugs.

“And thank you for getting Marilka and Ciri out of the city.” Geralt doesn’t know where Mousesack is taking them, and he doesn’t want to know. Information he doesn’t have can’t be gleaned from his mind.

“Marie’s been telling me for months that I need a vacation,” Mousesack says. “How long should we stay out of Novigrad?”

“Hopefully no more than a few days. I’ll call you when it’s safe to come back.”

“And if you don’t?”

“Take them to Ard Carraigh, to my mentor, Vesemir. Ciri will know where to go.”

Mousesack nods. “Be careful.”

“You too.” If Geralt were Jaskier, he would embrace Mousesack. Instead, he clasps the older man on the shoulder, then turns to hug Ciri.

“Don’t die,” Ciri whispers into his chest.

Geralt presses his face to her hair. Sending her away shouldn’t be this hard, not when it’s undoubtedly the right thing to do. “We won’t.”

He stands on the sidewalk with Yennefer as Mousesack drives away with Ciri and Marilka. 

“They’ll be okay,” Yennefer says, so softly that Geralt is sure the reassurance is more for herself than for him.

Geralt doesn’t say anything as the taillights vanish around the corner. It’s only when their car is out of sight that Renfri slips out of the shadows. Mousesack might be willing to look the other way for the Witcher, but the detective would have to at least try and arrest the Shrike. Geralt turns to face her. He’s still cautious around her. He’s not an idiot, after all. But she helped him save Marilka and she seems to want to help him save Jaskier.

“Now we figure out what to do next,” he says.

Renfri’s lips curl into a humorless smile. “You already know what you need to do next, Geralt. Tomorrow, you’re going to bring me to Stregobor. And then we end this.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week is the big showdown!


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Renfri, Yennefer and Geralt stage a rescue mission.

The drive to Stregobor’s home from Novigrad is long and mostly silent, with the only sound being the squeak of the rental car’s engine. Every time the engine squeaks or clicks, Yennefer can’t help but cast a pointed look in Geralt’s direction. Annika’s engine never squeaked. (They also wouldn’t have been able to fit three people in Annika, but that’s neither here nor there.) Geralt ignores her; all his attention is focused on the road. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel.

Renfri lounges in the back seat, looking far too relaxed for someone who’s currently handcuffed. Yennefer keeps an eye on her in the rearview mirror. She doesn’t love having the Shrike sitting behind her, even if Renfri is handcuffed and here willingly. Those handcuffs are lined with dimeritium and Yennefer has no doubt Renfri could get out of them if she really wanted to. If she got them off and managed to slip them on Yennefer’s wrists, Yennefer would be powerless. Renfri’s eyes meet hers in the mirror and the younger woman smirks, like she knows exactly what Yennefer is thinking. Yennefer looks away quickly.

She glances over at Geralt. He’s clenching and unclenching his hands on the steering wheel, like he’s picturing throttling Stregobor. Gently, Yennefer reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder. “He’ll be okay. We’ll get him back.”

“We don’t even have proof of life,” Geralt says. “They could have killed him the other night, as soon as I handed him back to Rience.”

“Don’t think like that.”

“Dead men make shitty hostages,” Renfri pipes up helpfully. At Yennefer’s venomous look, she shrugs. “What? I’ve taken a few hostages in my day. They’re much more effective alive.”

“Considering you’re supposed to be our hostage, maybe you shouldn’t talk,” Yennefer says.

“Just trying to help.” With a sigh, Renfri looks out the window. “There’s too much grass out here. It creeps me out.”

Yennefer glances at the rolling, picturesque farmlands they’re passing. “Grass creeps you out?”

“I don’t like the country. Too much open space.”

“Worried about monsters, Shrike?”

Renfri snorts. “Please. Nothing out here is scarier than me. Back at the lab, when we were well-behaved, they would take us camping as a reward. Like getting eaten alive by mosquitoes and shitting in the woods is any kind of reward.”

“I doubt you got rewarded for good behavior very often,” Yennefer says, begrudgingly amused.

Renfri snorts. “Gods, no. Not when the incentive was sleeping in a tent.” Her smile fades. “My friend, Zofia, loved it though. Mostly because she thought the sorcerer who took us camping was cute.”

“Zofia?” For the first time, Geralt shows interest in the conversation.

Renfri nods. “I did have some friends, Witcher, hard as it is to believe. It was discouraged, but they couldn’t always stop us.”

“The initials on the diary we found were ZAR,” Geralt says.

Renfri’s jaw clenches, not unlike Geralt when he’s trying to suppress his emotions. “That was her.”

“She wrote a lot about someone called Free.”

“That’s what she used to call me,” Renfri says. “They took her away about six months before I broke out. We were the last ones. And then she was gone and it was just me.”

A heavy silence hangs in the car for a moment.

“Rience destroyed the diary,” Geralt says softly. “But Jaskier took some pictures of the entries. After this is done, we can show them to you, if you’d like.”

A ghost of a smile flickers over Renfri’s face. “I’d like that.”

Geralt nods and the three of them fall quiet again, though something about the atmosphere inside the car feels less tense. At least, it’s less tense until Geralt turns the car down a long, windy driveway. Renfri radiates tension as they get closer to Stregobor’s mansion. Yennefer wonders what it’s like, to have spent eight years in single-minded pursuit of bloody, gruesome revenge and be this close to achieving it. Or failing spectacularly, depending on how today goes. As soon as they park in front of the mansion, four guards step out the front door. Yennefer snorts. All are big, mean-looking, and without a trace of magical ability. Stregobor is really going to have to try harder than that.

Yennefer rolls down her window and gives the men her most razor-sharp smile. Only one of them takes a step backwards, so it must not be her best work. “We’re here to see Stregobor,” she calls. “We brought something he’s been looking for.”

***

Jaskier’s head aches relentlessly for the entire night after Rience’s little mind-reading trick. He ends up sleeping on the floor next to the bed so that he can press his forehead against the smooth, cool plaster of the wall. He doesn’t do much sleeping; his dozing is fitful and filled with dreams about the Ghoul and other assorted horrors. His headache hasn’t gone away by the next day, though it’s reduced to a dull throb in his temples. At least they’re back to generic guards bringing him his meals instead of Rience. Tired and achy, he doesn’t have the energy to keep his composure if faced with the sorcerer.

All there is to do is sit on his bed, eyes closed, and try not to think about anything. Geralt offered to teach him how to meditate a couple of times and now Jaskier wishes he had taken him up on it. He never understood how Geralt could sit perfectly still, sometimes for hours on end, and keep his mind clear. Right now, Jaskier would kill for a clear mind. Instead, he’s doing his best not to panic as he pictures the sick satisfaction on Rience’s face after he saw Jaskier’s memories of the Ghoul.

The door to his room opens and Rience enters, flanked by two of the guards. The smug anticipation on the sorcerer’s face makes Jaskier’s mouth go dry. “The end of the month isn’t until tomorrow,” Jaskier croaks, almost pleading. “I still have another day.”

He’s not ready to die. He won’t be ready tomorrow either, but he’s definitely not ready today. Shouldn’t he get a last meal, or a chance to call Geralt to say goodbye? Or at the very least, a stiff drink?

Rience’s smile is more of a snarl. “Your Witcher is here, kid.”

Jaskier’s heart begins to hammer. “Where?”

“He just pulled up. Looks like he brought that purple-eyed bitch and the Shrike with him. Not good at following directions, is he? He was supposed to bring the Shrike to us already dead.” Rience seizes Jaskier by the arm and yanks him to his feet. “We’ll have to make him regret that.”

Geralt isn’t actually trading Renfri for Jaskier, right? He would never do something like that. “Having to endure your company for the past few days has been plenty of suffering, thanks. Anything else would be overkill.”

Rience jerks his head to the two guards, who each seize one of Jaskier’s arms and drag him towards the door.

“Speaking of overkill,” Jaskier says. “You’re each roughly the size of a house, or at least a large shed. I think one of you would be enough to handle me.”

“Not taking any chances,” Rience says from behind him. “Your Witcher is slippery.”

“I don’t think I like the word ‘slippery’ when applied to the man I love. It’s kind of gross. There’s nothing slippery about him.”

Rience scoffs. “The first thing I’m going to do to you is cut out your tongue, you dumb fuck.”

Jaskier refuses to let that terrify him, because Yennefer, Geralt, and Renfri are downstairs and each of them individually is ten times more intimidating than Rience. “That’s a good way to make Geralt really mad. He’s pretty fond of my tongue.”

“He won’t be around long enough to mourn the loss.”

Jaskier gasps in mock surprise. “You mean this isn’t a good faith exchange of prisoners? You and Stregobor are planning to kill us all anyway? I can’t believe it.”

“I’m not going to tell you to shut up again.”

“Or what?” Jaskier twists around so he can meet the sorcerer’s eyes. “You’ll kill me?”

Rience’s lip curls. “Or I’ll make you watch the Witcher die first.”

Jaskier knows an escape attempt is hopeless, but rational and measured decision-making has never been a strong point of his. He throws back his head, connecting with the face of one of the men holding him. The crunch of cartilage is worth the pain that immediately shoots through his head. As his victim reels backwards, Jaskier throws the entirety of his body weight against the second man. The second man stumbles under the weight and Jaskier rips out of his grasp and whirls to face Rience.

Rience looks delighted. “Finally, you’re making this interesting.”

Jaskier takes one step towards him and drops. It’s like all his limbs stop working at once and legs that have lost all sensation fold underneath him. He lands facedown on the ground. When he tries to lift his head, his neck won’t cooperate. He can’t get his mouth to form words. He can’t even blink. It’s like the night with the Ghoul all over again. Someone, probably Rience, kicks him in the head and he utters a wordless cry.

“Get him up,” Rience says.

Jaskier groans as he’s hauled to his feet roughly. His legs flop uselessly underneath him as his chin rests against his chest as he’s half-dragged, half-carried down the stairs. When they finally reach the study where Jaskier was brought on his first day here, Jaskier is shoved roughly into one of the armchairs. He sags to the side and only a hand fisting in his hair keeps him from sliding to the ground.

“Looks like he gave you some trouble.” Stregobor’s voice is low and amused. Jaskier wishes he could look up so he could see where in the room the sorcerer is.

“He tried,” Rience says and the hand buried in Jaskier’s hair tightens painfully. “You’re nice and quiet like this, kid. I should have done this days ago.”

Jaskier hears more voices in the hallway and the sound of the door opening. There’s a beat of silence, then Geralt’s furious voice demands, “What the fuck did you do to him?”

***

It takes too long to gain entry into Stregobor’s house. His guards don’t seem to know what to do when Geralt shows up with a living Shrike and a sorceress. They make Geralt give up his swords, which isn’t surprising, though he still protests. “You don’t want me unarmed if she gets loose,” he tells them, jerking his chin at Renfri. It isn’t a compelling enough argument for them, and he’s left with only the two knives hidden on him. Next, they’re nervous about Geralt’s potion-black eyes and seem to want to make him wait outside until the effects wear off. Geralt flatly refuses.

“Tell your boss, that if he wants the Shrike, he needs to let us in,” he growls. “I’m not standing out here for hours while you dither.”

By the time they’re finally permitted entry, Geralt is ready to start stabbing people. He takes Renfri by the arm and leads her into Stregobor’s house. She puts up some token resistance, catching Geralt in the throat with her elbow hard enough to make him wheeze. There are only four guards flanking them on their way into the house, which is infuriating. Geralt could take on every one of these men single-handedly, but he can’t do anything until he knows it won’t get Jaskier killed.

The three of them are brought to a study and Geralt pauses to survey the room. Stregobor stands in front of his desk, flanked by four guards. He radiates smugness. Slumped in a chair by the fireplace is Jaskier, with Rience holding him up by the hair. At first, he thinks Jaskier is drugged--his expression is slack and his body unmoving--but then he sees that his boyfriend’s eyes are perfectly lucid. No, this must be a spell to mimic the paralysis that the Ghoul inflicted on his victims. Jaskier can’t move or speak, but his mind is clear.

“What the fuck did you do to him?” Geralt growls, the sight of Jaskier’s helpless form sending a surge of fury through him.

“Nothing to be concerned about,” Stregobor says. “Your friend caused us some issues and Rience just needed a way to subdue him.”

One of the two guards behind Rience has a bloody nose. The sight is immensely satisfying.

“I’m here and I brought what you were looking for,” Geralt says. “Let him go.”

“You haven’t brought what I was looking for, Geralt.” Stregobor leans against the desk, looking unconcerned. “I told you to bring me the Shrike’s head, not a living, breathing Shrike. And you brought a friend.” He casts a disdainful look at Yennefer.

“Sorry, no one told us this was an invite-only hostage situation.” Renfri shrugs. Geralt wishes she would at least try to look like someone who’s been taken captive and is facing her own death.

Stregobor seems to notice. “You don’t look concerned by your imminent demise, Miss Creyden.”

“Nor do you look concerned about yours.” Renfri spits at him. He jumps back, like the lob of spit was a grenade, and she cackles.

Geralt tightens his grip on her arm, trying to subtly remind her that she’s supposed to be a prisoner right now. She shouldn’t be acting like this was all part of her master plan, even if it was.

“Witcher, get better control of your prisoner,” Stregobor snaps. “As you can see, we have perfect control over ours.”

Geralt looks over and his heart plummets. Rience has Jaskier’s head jerked back and is holding a knife to his throat. No, not a knife. A scalpel, just like the one the Ghoul threatened him with. Jaskier’s eyes are darting frantically and Geralt can hear the thunderous pounding of his heart. He knows this is too close to the scene that Jaskier has been reliving in his head for nearly three years now: the paralysis, the scalpel, the terror.

“I’m not sure what game you three thought you were playing here.” Stregobor’s voice is low and cold. “But whatever it is, it ends now. Geralt, kill the Shrike, or Jaskier dies.”

They knew this was coming. When they discussed all the possible ways Stregobor would react to their appearance and how to handle each scenario, they made contingency plans. Geralt can remember none of them. His world has narrowed down to the pulse weaving under the thin, pale skin of Jaskier’s throat and the cold steel of the scalpel.

Yennefer speaks for him. “Geralt isn’t an assassin. We’ve brought you the Shrike. It’s up to you what happens from here.”

“Rience,” Stregobor says,

Rience drags the scalpel along Jaskier’s jawline, right over the scar left by the Ghoul. Jaskier makes a strangled noise. It’s a shallow cut, meant to hurt and scare, not kill. Still, Jaskier is bleeding and the sight of the blood running down his neck makes Geralt see red. He takes a step towards the sorcerer, then freezes as all ten guards draw guns.

“Don’t do anything foolish, Geralt,” Stregobor says. “I’m fond of that chair. I’d hate to get blood on it.”

Geralt’s hands itch for his swords. “If he gets so much as another scratch, I’ll kill everyone in this room.”

“Jaskier will be dead as soon as you take another step,” Stregobor says. “Kill the Shrike, Geralt.”

Jaskier makes a noise. Without being able to move his lips or tongue, the word is nearly unintelligible, but Geralt can make out the slurred, _“Don’t.”_ Rience grins and Geralt is sure the sorcerer thinks that Jaskier is begging for his life. But Geralt knows Jaskier better than that; Jaskier is telling Geralt not to kill Renfri. There’s a blade at Jaskier’s throat, and he’s still more worried about Geralt than himself.

Geralt struggles to control his expression. “My weapons were confiscated. Killing people with my bare hands isn’t my style.”

“We have just the thing,” Stregobor says and one of his guards hands Geralt a sharpened metal pike. “Renfri left this here the other night when she broke in to kill me. It seems only appropriate to kill her with her own weapon, don’t you think?”

Renfri snorts. “You can’t resist the opportunity to be a dramatic motherfucker, can you?”

Geralt weighs the pike in his hand, considering his options. Ten guards and two sorcerers. Not terrible odds, if there wasn't a hostage. And if that hostage weren't Jaskier.

“I told him I’d cut out his tongue if you didn’t do what we said, Witcher,” Rience says. “I think it would be an improvement, personally, but he seemed to think you wouldn’t like that. What do you think?”

Jaskier gasps as Rience squeezes his cheeks, forcing his mouth open. The sorcerer seizes Jaskier’s tongue and places the flat of the scalpel against it. A sick feeling churns in Geralt’s stomach.

“What will it be?” Stregobor asks.

“Yeah, Geralt, what will it be?” Renfri turns to face him with an expression of amusement, but Geralt sees a flash of worry in her eyes. For the first time, Geralt realizes that she thinks he might actually try to kill her.

Geralt’s eyes meet Yennefer's. “Someone’s going to die today, Stregobor. But it’s not going to be Renfri and it’s not going to be Jaskier.”

Yennefer flicks her fingers and makes the dimeritium cuffs fall away from Renfri’s wrists. Renfri lunges for Rience and Jaskier, just as Yennefer and Geralt throw themselves at Stregobor. And then the room dissolves into chaos.

***

The scalpel tastes like blood and metal against Jaskier’s tongue. When the shouting starts, he feels the edge of the scalpel begin to cut into his tongue. He experiences a moment of pure horror before Rience cries out and drops both the scalpel and Jaskier. Jaskier slumps out of the chair and falls to the ground, landing facedown on the carpet. All he can see is the blade of the scalpel, only inches from his face, and the wall. Around him, he can hear the sounds of fighting, but he can’t see what’s going on. There’s shouting and gunshots and Stregobor yelling orders above the din. Somebody steps on Jaskier’s leg and he gasps, more in surprise than in pain, and he hears something heavy fall next to him. If the splatter of something warm and liquid he feels on his hand is any indication, probably a body. He thinks the fear and uncertainty might kill him, until all of a sudden, the numbness in his limbs lifts.

Jaskier sits up, gasping, and looks around the room. The body next to him is the guard whose nose Jaskier broke earlier. From the angle of his neck, the broken nose is now the least of his problems. Another guard is dead on the ground from what looks like a gunshot wound, while Geralt faces off against the remaining four and Yennefer battles Stregobor. Rience is struggling with a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. Renfri drops to her knees in front of Jaskier and reaches for the collar around his neck.

Jaskier recoils. “Don’t.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “Those handcuffs are lined with dimeritium. Rience’s powers are neutralized, and so is the spell on the collar. Yennefer, we could use some help with this!”

“A little busy!” Yennefer ducks behind the desk as a spell from Stregobor reduces the desk to a pile of smoking cinders. As Stregobor aims another spell, Renfri leaps between Stregobor and Yennefer. The spell hits Renfri, who doesn’t even blink, and Yennefer runs to get Jaskier. She places her hand against the collar, which immediately crumbles under her touch. Gasping, Jaskier’s hands fly to his neck. The skin feels tender and bruised.

“Yenn,” he gasps, but she shushes him and tugs him to his feet.

“Come on, let’s go.”

Jaskier gapes at her. “We can’t leave them!”

“I’m not happy about it either, but Geralt insists. I’m supposed to get you safely to the car.”

One of the guards lunges at them and Yennefer doesn’t even look at him before flicking her finger. The man’s clothes fall to the ground in a heap. For a moment, Jaskier thinks she just made the man vanish, until he sees something moving around in the pile of clothes.

“Did you just turn that man into a giant slug?” he asks.

“No, an eel.”

Jaskier looks at her with wide eyes. “So when we first met, all those times you threatened to turn me into an eel, you actually could have done it?”

“I never make threats I can’t follow through on, Jask.” She grabs him by the wrist. “Come on.”

Jaskier snatches the scalpel off the ground and follows her without any more arguments. While Renfri fights Stregobor, Geralt fights the guards, and Rience fights the dimeritium handcuffs, Yennefer and Jaskier slip out of the study.

“Are you hurt?” Yennefer asks Jaskier as they make their way down the hallway.

“Nothing major.” Gingerly, Jaskier touches the cut on his neck. His tongue stings from where the scalpel cut it, but it’s still attached, which is more than he expected. “Thanks for coming for me.”

“Don’t be stupid. Geralt’s been a wreck since you disappeared. Honestly, I was worried he would—”

Jaskier never finds out what Yennefer was worried about, because a portal opens up in front of them and Rience steps through. He’s holding the dimeritium cuffs dangled from one finger, a vicious smile twisting his face. Before Yennefer or Jaskier can react, he seizes Yennefer and slaps the handcuffs on her.

“I’ve been wanting a rematch, you little bitch,” he growls.

Yennefer stares down at the cuffs on her hands in horror. She flexes her fingers, like testing to see if her magic is really gone. When nothing happens, Rience laughs and backhands her.

“Hey!” Jaskier grabs her to stop the blow from knocking her over. “I thought I was the one you wanted to kill.”

“I have time for both of you.” Rience points to the healing burns on his throat. “You see this, bitch? These are going to scar.”

“I would apologize for ruining your good looks, if you didn’t already have ‘weasel’ written all over you,” Yennefer snarls.

Rience throws out a hand and Yennefer and Jaskier both fly backwards, slamming into the wall. The scalpel falls out of Jaskier’s hand. He slides to the ground, winded, as Rience advances on Yennefer.

“You Aretuza whores are all the same,” the sorcerer says. “All flash, no substance.”

“You misogynistic Ban Ard windbags are all the same,” Yennefer replies coldly. “No flash and no substance.”

Rience waves his arm and Yennefer goes flying sideways, her head hitting the ground with an audible crack. She cries out in pain and when she looks up, there’s a nasty gash in her forehead.

Jaskier gropes for the scalpel. “Leave her alone!”

Rience summons a handful of fire. His back is turned to Jaskier. “Don’t worry, I’ll deal with you after I handle this cu—”

Jaskier leaps to his feet, grabs Rience’s hair, and drags the scalpel across his throat. The sorcerer makes a gurgling noise and Jaskier feels hot blood spill over his hand. He drops the scalpel and releases Rience. The sorcerer turns to Jaskier, eyes wide and mouth gaping. There’s so much blood pouring from his throat, more blood than Jaskier knew could be contained in a human body. Rience lurches towards Jaskier, like he’s going to use his last breath to take his revenge, but his legs go out from under him and he slumps into Jaskier. Frozen, Jaskier lets him fall to the floor. The sorcerer gasps and chokes for a long, terrible moment, then goes still. Jaskier doesn’t need to check for a pulse to know he’s dead.

“Jaskier.” Yennefer’s eyes are unfocused and the wound on her forehead is bleeding freely. Definitely concussed, he decides.

Jaskier’s legs feel like jelly underneath him and he doesn’t feel like he can get enough air in his lungs. He just fucking killed someone. And even if that person was the worst, he was still a person. “Oh gods.”

“I’m sorry.” Yennefer closes her eyes. “You shouldn’t have had to do that.”

Jaskier shakes his head. There’s no time to fall apart right now. Yennefer is hurt and her powers are neutralized until they can get the handcuffs off; he needs to get her out of here. “He was going to kill you. I had no choice.”

“You saved my life,” she says.

He manages a shaky grin and bends down to scoop Yennefer to her feet. She leans heavily against him. “Bet you never thought you’d say that to me, huh?”

“Probably won’t be the strangest thing that happens today.”

No guards block their exit; they’re probably all fighting Geralt and Renfri. As Jaskier helps Yennefer into the backseat of the rental car, there’s a pained shout from inside the house. Jaskier freezes when he recognizes the voice. Geralt.

Yennefer sees the look on his face. “Jaskier, don’t.”

“Take this.” Jaskier hands her the bloodied scalpel. “Just in case.”

“Jaskier—”

Jaskier turns and runs back towards the house, just as Geralt lets out another agonized scream.

***

As Yennefer and Jaskier leave the study, the last remaining guard Geralt is fighting tries to follow them, a nasty glint in his eyes. Geralt drives his fist into the man’s face, then snatches Renfri’s pike off the ground and bashes him over the head with it. The man falls and Geralt turns to see that the three remaining guards have converged on Renfri, preventing her from getting near Stregobor. Geralt shouts her name and tosses her the pike, which she snatches out of the air with a grin and immediately uses to dislocate one of the guards’ jaws.

On the other side of the room, Stregobor is helping Rience get out of the handcuffs. Geralt draws one of his knives and starts towards them, intent on taking Rience out of the equation before the sorcerer can become a threat again. But one of the guards swings around, pointing a gun at Geralt’s head. By the time Geralt has broken the man’s arm and knocked him unconscious, Rience is out of the cuffs and stepping through a portal. He has the handcuffs dangling from a finger.

Fuck, he must be on his way to find Yennefer and Jaskier. Geralt pauses for a moment, frozen with indecision. There’s only one guard left standing, and Renfri will make quick work of him. Geralt is fairly certain she can handle Stregobor on her own. Yennefer should be able to take care of Rience, but what if he takes her by surprise and gets the dimeritium cuffs on her? Yennefer and Jaskier will be left undefended.

Decision made, Geralt turns for the door, but only makes it two steps before a wave of magic hits him and slams him against the wall. His back presses painfully into the brick and he groans. Stregobor stands in front of him, one hand raised casually. Renfri pulls her pike out of the last guard’s body and looks between Stregobor and Geralt. There’s blood on her face, her eyes are wild with the thrill of battle, and she doesn’t look human. She bares her teeth at Stregobor.

“Your turn,” she says and takes a step towards the sorcerer.

The magic presses harder against Geralt. This time, he manages to suppress the pained noise rising in his throat.

“Stand down, Renfri, or he dies,” Stregobor says.

Renfri laughs, wild and unafraid, but she doesn’t move any closer to Stregobor and Geralt. “I’ve met him like three times, Stregobor. You already murdered all the people I cared about. Try harder.”

Stregobor shakes his head. “Look at you, girl. You’re powerful beyond most people’s wildest dreams. Strong, fast, healthy. What life would you have had in Blaviken? High school dropout, most likely, pregnant before you could legally drink. Maybe you would have gotten lucky and made it through school to a career shuffling papers and fetching coffee. I made you extraordinary.”

Renfri’s lip curls into a snarl. “You made me into a mutant.”

“You ensured that was all you’d be when you escaped from the lab.”

“So I should have stayed and been used as a lab rat? Drowned? Electrocuted? Frozen? Raped?” Renfri’s voice gets louder with each word.

“Renfri, just end this.” It hurts to speak. The pressure on Geralt’s ribcage is excruciating. “Kill him and then go get Rience. He’s after—” Stregobor’s magic presses harder and a shout escapes Geralt’s lips as his ribs crack.

“You’re fast,” Stregobor says to Renfri, not even looking at Geralt. He might as well just be another one of the ugly, overpriced paintings on the wall. “But you won’t be able to kill me before the Witcher is dead too. Stand down.”

Geralt closes his eyes and tries to keep his breathing even and shallow. Taking deep breaths right now only hurts. “Renfri, you’ve been waiting for this for twenty years. Just fucking kill him already.”

Pain tears through him, sharp and excruciating, and Geralt screams. He’s never heard a sound like that come out of his own mouth and somehow, that’s worse than the pain. He strains against the spell Stregobor is using to pin him to the wall, but another fresh wave of pain wrings the fight from him. If he weren’t suspended in the air, unable to move, he would probably go to his knees in agony.

“Reinforcements will be here soon, Renfri,” Stregobor says calmly. “You’ll allow them to subdue you when you get here and you’ll go quietly with them.”

Renfri hasn’t moved. She’s holding her pike in her hands, her fingers clenched around the metal. She’s not looking at Geralt.

Waves of pain are still wracking Geralt’s body, but he breathes through it. He’s suffered worse than this, he tells himself. “You’re not going to get another chance like this.”

Renfri’s eyes flicker to him and regret flashes across her features. She drops the pike.

“Fuck,” Geralt growls, just as the study door flies open.

Jaskier stands there, covered in blood. His shirt, his hands, and even his face are drenched. He wears an expression that Geralt has never seen on him before, one of mingled hatred, rage, and fear that looks all wrong on Jaskier’s normally friendly features. When he sees Geralt pinned to the wall, he snarls and tackles Stregobor. The sorcerer is too surprised to react and falls to the ground, with Jaskier’s weight on top of him. Without Stregobor’s power holding him up, Geralt slides down the wall. He lies there, winded.

“You fucking piece of shit.” Jaskier seizes Stregobor’s wrists and pins them to the ground. “What, torturing little girls lost its spark so you decided to move on to my boyfriend?”

“Get off of me!” Stregobor’s voice is high-pitched with outrage and panic. “Rience!”

“Rience is dead,” Jaskier growls and slams his forehead into Stregobor’s nose. The sorcerer howls. Geralt tries to stand up, but falls back with a grunt of pain. He definitely has some broken ribs.

“Jaskier, move!” Renfri barks, hoisting her pike. Jaskier doesn’t need to be told twice; he scrambles towards Geralt as Renfri lunges at Stregobor, pike raised. Stregobor raises his hand in defense. Renfri might be immune to his powers, but the pike isn’t. It rips out of her hand and goes sailing towards the back of Jaskier’s head. Geralt deflects it with Aard and reaches out to grab Jaskier, pulling him against his side, even as his ribs scream in protest.

“I heard you screaming.” Jaskier is breathing heavily, eyes huge. “What did he do to you?”

Geralt winces and touches his side. “Just a few broken ribs. Nothing Yenn can’t handle. You’re covered in blood.”

“Most of it isn’t mine.”

Geralt’s stomach drops. “Yenn?”

“Not hers either. She’s in the car. I think she’s concussed, but she should be okay.”

Stregobor is fighting Renfri by using magic to throw everything at her that he can: books, fireplace pokers, paperweights, and even his desk chair. Renfri dodges it all. Stregobor doesn’t look like an all-powerful sorcerer right now; he looks like a frantic man who has never had to defend himself in his life and is starting to realize how terribly outmatched he is. Geralt feels like he should rise and help Renfri, but she doesn’t seem to need it. This is her fight.

“Witcher!” Stregobor screams, trying to bring a bookshelf down on Renfri’s head. She somersaults out of the way. “I’ll pay you anything you want. Just kill her!”

Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s shoulders. “Fuck off, Stregobor.”

“Anything! I can get Jaskier his job back. I can let him stay in his apartment!”

“Yeah, what Geralt just said,” Jaskier says.

“There has to be something you want!”

Geralt looks at Jaskier, who is alive and warm next to him. “No, there isn’t.” Slowly, he rises to his feet. It hurts to move, but he manages to retrieve Renfri’s pike and hand it to her. “Looks like you need this.”

A slow smile spreads across her face and she rounds on Stregobor, stepping over the wreckage of his office.

Stregobor holds out his hands in supplication. “I can undo the mutations, Renfri! I can fix you.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t need fixing.”

And then she drives the pike into his chest.

***

The pike drives through skin, muscle, and bone, straight to Stregobor’s heart. Renfri feels the moment it hits home. Stregobor’s eyes go wide and he lets out a surprised little cough. This close, she can smell that he had fish for lunch. She can see a tiny piece of food wedged between his front teeth. He doesn’t look like the monster who has haunted her nightmares for most of her life. He looks like a middle-aged man who never truly believed anyone could defeat him and can’t believe this is happening to him.

Stregobor’s eyes go glassy and Renfri lets the corpse fall to the ground. She’s not sure what she expected from the moment of Stregobor’s death. The weight that she’s carried on her shoulders for the last eight years to vanish? The memories of Zofia and her other dead friends to stop haunting her? But she feels no different as she looks down at Stregobor’s crumpled form. She’s tired and angry and still burning for a revenge that she’s already achieved. There’s no one left to take revenge on, so why doesn’t this feel over?

Someone gently touches her on the shoulder and she turns to see Jaskier. He smiles at her tremulously, his teeth bloody. “We should get out of here, before reinforcements arrive.”

Renfri would love to be here when reinforcements arrive so she has more people to stab, but one look at Jaskier and Geralt tells her that’s a bad idea. The Witcher is obviously hurt; his face is pale and drawn with pain. Renfri doesn’t think that most of the blood covering Jaskier is his, but he has the look in his eye of someone who is one loud noise away from going into shock.

“Are you okay?” Jaskier’s voice is so gentle that she wants to snap at him that of course she’s okay, she’s wanted to kill Stregobor for years. Why wouldn’t she be okay?

When Renfri doesn’t answer, Jaskier’s expression goes soft with pity. “Come on, Free. Let’s get you home.”

Renfri has to close her eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, then she nods and lets Jaskier lead her and Geralt out of the room, leaving Stregobor behind.

***

It’s nearly midnight, hours after they returned to Novigrad, that Jaskier finally starts to believe that the door to their apartment isn’t going to fly open and Rience, Stregobor, and dozens of armed guards aren’t going to come bursting in. Despite the fact that he still has Rience’s blood under his fingernails and he watched Stregobor die, he can’t completely accept that they’re gone and everyone is safe. It’s not until Yennefer’s friend Triss has come and gone after healing Yennefer’s concussion and Geralt’s broken ribs and both Yennefer and Geralt are sound asleep that Jaskier finally lets himself relax. He leaves Geralt, who is snoring gently, in the bedroom and heads to the kitchen to grab something to eat. He finds Renfri halfway out the front door.

“You’re leaving?” he asks, surprised by how much that bothers him.

She freezes in the middle of pulling the door closed behind her. “I told your boyfriend I would leave Novigrad if he helped me kill Stregobor. I always hold up my end of the bargain.”

“He didn’t mean tonight. Come on, stay and have something to eat. Spend the night. Yennefer and Roach are in Ciri’s room, but you could take the couch.”

She shakes her head. “It’s easier if I just head out, Jaskier. I’m not good at goodbyes. Never had a chance to have many of them, so I’m out of practice.”

Jaskier has a feeling that no amount of arguing will change Renfri’s mind, so he sighs. “Thank you. Geralt told me that you didn’t let Stregobor kill him.”

“Does that make up for the time I stabbed him?”

“I’ll have to consult with Yennefer and Ciri, but my vote is yes.”

She smiles wryly. “He’s a good man. If there were more people like him in the world, there wouldn’t need to be people like me.”

“I don’t think you two are as different as you think you are, Renfri,” Jaskier says. “Seriously, stay the night. I can talk to Geralt in the morning. We can help you get on your feet. Find you a job and a place to live. Stregobor is dead. You can start over now.”

“It’s a nice dream.” Renfri shrugs. “But I’m not the settling down type. And you, Geralt, Yennefer, and Ciri have a nice life here. You don’t need me darkening your doorstep.”

“You helped save my life. You did save Geralt’s life. You wouldn’t be darkening anything.”

She gives him a look that’s almost fond. “You know, I’m glad that after everything you’ve been through, you can still see the best in people. I wish I had your optimism, Jaskier. I hope you don’t lose it.”

Jaskier remembers Rience’s face as he died and he shudders. “What will you do next?”

“I don’t know. I think I might be done being the Shrike for a while. Now that Stregobor’s dead… well, maybe I'll take a break.”

“Done with stabbing people?” Jaskier asks.

“For now, at least.” She smiles. “Goodbye, Jaskier.”

“If you ever change your mind, you know where to find us. Door’s always open.” Jaskier isn’t sure how Geralt will feel about that offer, but that’s a bridge to cross if Renfri ever comes back.

“Take care of yourselves,” she says and then she closes the door behind her. Jaskier hears her footsteps retreat down the hallway and then she’s gone.

He’s lost his appetite, so he returns to Geralt’s bedroom and is surprised to find his boyfriend sitting up in bed, eyes bleary with sleep, but alert.

“How are you feeling?” Jaskier crosses to the bed and gingerly sits on the edge, not wanting to jostle Geralt.

“Fine.”

“Fine? You nearly got crushed to death, Geralt. You’re going to need to give me better than ‘fine’ to reassure me.”

Geralt’s lips quirk. “Fine for someone who nearly got crushed to death.”

“Melitele’s tits, Geralt, you—”

Geralt leans forward and kisses him. Jaskier makes some perfunctory protests about the state of Geralt’s ribs, but his boyfriend is a very persuasive man, and he finds himself leaning into the kiss.

“I missed you,” Geralt says when he pulls away. “Fuck, I was so worried.”

“I’m fine.” Jaskier leans his forehead against Geralt’s. “Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. Definitely not the worst kidnapping I’ve ever undergone.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is, Jask.”

Jaskier laughs, though there’s not a lot of humor in it. “I killed Rience. I slit his throat.”

Geralt stiffens and pulls Jaskier into a hug. “Fuck, you shouldn’t have had to do that. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice,” Jaskier says into Geralt’s shoulder. “He was about to kill Yenn, and then he would have killed me too. There was so much blood, Geralt. And the noises he made. It was awful.”

“You did the right thing.” Geralt cups the back of Jaskier’s head, his thumb massaging slow circles. “Rience was a monster. He would have killed us all.”

“I know,” Jaskier says. “I just think I’ll leave the stabbing people to you from now on. I prefer standing on the sidelines and making witty comments.”

“You won’t have to stab anyone again. I promise.” There’s a finality to Geralt’s voice that makes Jaskier look up to meet his boyfriend’s eyes.

“Hey, we’re not going to do that thing again where you cut me out,” he tells Geralt sternly. “You aren’t using this as an excuse to push me away for my own good. Yes, someone tried to kill me. Yes, it was terrifying. Yes, I had to kill someone, which was pretty terrible. But that doesn’t change anything.”

“I wouldn’t blame you if it did. If you didn’t want to do this anymore—”

Jaskier kisses him firmly, stopping that line of thought in its tracks. “Nothing has changed for me. We got through this. We’re alive and we’re together. That’s what matters.”

Geralt smiles and Jaskier leans into him, letting his boyfriend pull him into an embrace. They stay like that for a long time, with Jaskier’s head tucked under Geralt’s chin and Geralt’s arms secure around him, as if daring anyone to try to pull them apart.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue, which will be considerably shorter and fluffier than this chapter, will be posted on Friday.


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One month later

The last time Geralt walked into Stregobor Tower, it was as Geralt Rivia, unarmed and without his powers. Tonight, he enters as the Witcher, masked, black-eyed, and with his two swords strapped to his back. It’s probably unnecessary; he’s not really expecting a fight. But he can’t forget how last time he was here, Stregobor and Istredd weaseled their way into his mind and forced him to speak when he didn’t mean to and sit when he wanted to stand. He won’t let that happen again.

He steps off the elevator on the top floor of Stregobor Tower (now technically called Black Sun Tower, as if the name change will do anything to salvage its reputation.) It’s late and the desks are all empty. Many of them are cleared; Black Sun Industries recently laid off a significant portion of its employees. While Geralt regrets the number of people who have lost their jobs, he can’t help but feel a little jolt of satisfaction whenever he sees the company’s falling stock prices. Soon, there will be nothing left of Stregobor but the memory of his crimes.

He finds Istredd sitting at Stregobor’s old desk. The office hasn’t been redecorated at all; it’s like the former CEO just stepped out for the night and will be back in the morning. Istredd doesn’t look up as Geralt enters. Geralt is sure the sorcerer heard him coming.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Geralt says. “CEO. That’s quite the promotion.”

Istredd’s lips twist into a wry smile. They both know that being named CEO of Black Sun Industries is the equivalent of being named captain of a ship that just got hit with a torpedo. “To what do I owe the honor, Witcher?”

“Thought it was time you and I had a talk.”

“What would we have to talk about?” Istredd asks. “You won. Stregobor is dead. Black Sun Industries is in disgrace. The Shrike is in the wind. I’m interested in how a man whose mission is to keep the peace justified letting a killer go free.”

“I’m interested in how you justified working for a killer.”

Istredd still won’t look at Geralt; his gaze is focused on the desk. “I had nothing to do with Project Lilit. It was before my time.”

“So you keep saying. But you didn’t leave in disgust when you found out about it. You knew what Stregobor was capable of and you stayed.”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you.” Istredd’s Adam’s apple bobs as he meets Geralt’s eyes. “But I didn’t know what he was planning on doing to Jaskier and Marilka. I never would have…”

Geralt grunts in derision. “I’m sure you would have felt terrible as you stood by and did nothing.”

The other man has the decency to look chastened. “Nothing like Project Lilit will happen again on my watch, Witcher. No need for your boyfriend to write any more hit pieces about us.”

“It’s not a hit piece if everything in it is true.” Geralt is glad the mask hides his small, proud smile. The story that Jaskier sold to _The Redanian Mail_ a few weeks ago was the final nail in Black Sun Industries’ coffin. It was a brilliant piece of journalism and it spread across the Continent like a wildfire. Within a day, the Countess called Jaskier to offer him his job back. Jaskier declined. They’re still not sure which of the Countess’ actions were caused by Stregobor’s compulsion and which ones were due to her own questionable morals, but Jaskier wants nothing to do with that. As soon as Jaskier is settled in a new job, Geralt plans to start his own job hunt.

“Stregobor was deeply misguided, but—”

“Stregobor was a fucking monster. He tortured young girls. He allowed at least one to be raped. He nearly had an innocent woman killed. He had the man I love kidnapped and tortured. Whatever hell he’s rotting in, I hope there’s a special place just for him.” Geralt’s hands fist at his sides. “But I’m not here to talk about Stregobor, Istredd. I’m here to talk about you.”

Istredd’s eyes go comically wide. “Me?”

“I’m going to be watching you and Black Sun Industries. If I hear even a hint of anything untoward--people going missing, strange mutations popping up, children being bought from their parents--I’ll be back. And I won’t be back just to talk.”

“Are you threatening me?”

Geralt cocks an eyebrow at him. “I thought that was clear.”

“I already told you, I have no intention of doing anything like this again. Even if I did, Black Sun Industries will probably be shuttered within a year.”

“You’re a wily bastard and Black Sun Industries isn’t the only corporation peddling substandard magic out there. Wherever you end up, you better make sure there’s not another Project Lilit happening. Because I will be watching. So will Yennefer Vengerberg, Triss Merigold, Tissaia de Vries, and a host of other sorceresses that you don’t want to make angry.” Geralt steps closer, reveling in the sorcerer’s nervous twitch. “And if you or anyone who works with you ever comes near my ward, my boyfriend, Yennefer, or Marilka ever again, I will dismantle this entire fucking tower with you inside it. Understood?”

Istredd swallows. “Understood.”

“Good. I hope we don’t have to have another talk like this again.”

“We won’t,” Istredd says. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m not at the office this late because I want to be. I have actual work to do.”

Geralt turns for the door.

“Give my regards to Yenna,” Istredd calls after him. “And tell her the job offer still stands. With talent like her, we might actually be able to save this company.”

“You don’t deserve talent like her.” Geralt leaves before the sorcerer can reply. On his way down to the lobby, he sees a text from Mousesack about a missing kid in the Harborside District. It’s not far, maybe a fifteen minute walk.

It doesn’t take him long to locate the missing little girl, who luckily just wandered away from home and wasn’t abducted. He returns the child to her front yard and finds Mousesack and a uniformed officer waiting for him. He hands the child off to the officer, who brings her inside, and turns to the detective.

“Witcher,” Mousesack says in a voice loud enough to carry. “That was fast.”

“She was only a block away. I think she was mad she wasn’t allowed to have ice cream for dinner. Decided to go find some new parents with laxxer rules about nutrition.”

“Well, your city thanks you again.” Mousesack leans forward and adds in an undertone, “Are we still on for dinner on Saturday?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Jaskier wants to know if we should bring anything.”

“Just yourselves. Marie is looking forward to meeting Ciri.”

“She’s looking forward to it too.”

“Good. Stay safe out there.”

Geralt nods. “I’m done for the night. I’m going home.”

“Early for you.”

“My roommates don’t like it when I’m out past curfew. Take care, Mousesack.” Geralt waves and slips into the darkness, keeping his head down. He’s patrolling less these days, waiting for Mousesack to text him and tell him that there’s a problem. He soothes whatever guilt he feels by reminding himself that it’s winter. The crime rate is always lower in winter. And he has three good reasons for wanting to be back at his apartment at a reasonable hour.

He finds all three reasons sitting on the couch, watching a cheesy horror movie. Roach’s head is in Jaskier’s lap and Ciri is rubbing the dog's belly. Roach is so content that she doesn’t get up when Geralt comes in, just thumps her tail a few times. Yennefer is there too, curled up in the armchair. She doesn’t have to stay with Ciri while Geralt is out being the Witcher anymore, but she still comes over to have dinner with Jaskier and Ciri and give Ciri magic lessons a few times a week.

“You’re home early,” Jaskier says as Geralt brushes a kiss over a drowsy Ciri’s forehead, then comes to plant a kiss on Jaskier’s mouth.

“Hm.” Geralt pulls away after a moment. “You’re up late for someone who has a job interview in the morning.”

“Couldn’t go to sleep without my good luck charm.” Jaskier arches his back to kiss Geralt again.

“Ugh, gross,” Ciri whines.

“Gentlemen, there are innocent eyes in the room,” Yennefer says dryly. “And I’d also like not to have to watch you two making out.”

“Oh, hush.” Jaskier waves a hand at her.

“Did they cause any trouble?” Geralt asks Yennefer, resting his chin on the top of Jaskier’s head.

“No more than usual,” Yennefer says. “Though they’ve made me watch this terrible movie.”

“This is a classic!” Jaskier points to the screen, where a monster that is clearly a man in a cheap suit is chasing a scantily-clad ingenue. “Well, the first in the series is a classic. I think this is the sixth. Maybe the seventh.”

Geralt snorts. “Is there anything in the fridge to eat?”

“Of course. Leftover curry.”

“You made curry?” Geralt tries not to look too skeptical. Jaskier’s culinary ambitions pretty much end at grilled cheese, spaghetti, and eggs.

“I’m going to ignore your skepticism, Geralt. I mastered that curry. I dialed the number for the takeout place like a champ.”

“My hero.” Geralt drops another kiss on Jaskier’s cheek, then goes into the kitchen to heat himself up some dinner.

While he’s standing in front of the microwave, Yennefer heads for the door, pulling her coat on. “I’m done for the night. I’ve had enough cheesy monsters and fake blood.”

“A classic!” Jaskier calls and Geralt snorts.

Yennefer’s lips twitch into a smile. “I have to get a good night’s sleep, in case my new assistant tries to rearrange my shop again.”

“I thought you liked her new system.”

“Yes, but I’m not going to tell her that.” Yennefer rolls her eyes. She wasn’t thrilled when she learned that Geralt had all but promised Marilka a job at her shop. There was plenty of muttering and threats to make Geralt pay Marilka’s salary, but she eventually relented. When she’s in a good mood, she’ll even admit that the girl is clever, good with customers, and has a great head for business. Plus, Ciri adores her and the two have become fast friends.

“Istredd sends his regards,” Geralt tells Yennefer. “Wanted to let you know that his job offer is still open.”

“I hope you told him I’d rather kiss a manticore.”

“I didn’t, but I think he knows.”

“Good. Did you put the fear of the gods into him?”

“Did my best. I don’t think there will be another Project Lilit.”

“There’s always another Project Lilit. There’s always some idiot who decides to play at being a god and ends up hurting other people. Stregobor wasn’t the first, and he won’t be the last.”

“That’s a problem for another day,” Geralt says.

Yennefer leans against the doorframe. “It’s nice to see you happy again, Geralt.”

“Nice to be happy.”

“Don’t fuck it up this time.”

Geralt looks out at the couch, where Ciri is giggling and Jaskier is gesturing expansively at the TV. He feels a slow, stupid smile cross his face. “I won’t.”

“Good.” Yennefer kisses him on the cheek. “Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Night, Yenn.”

She slips out the door and Geralt brings his bowl of curry to the couch, wedging himself next to Jaskier. The couch is hardly big enough for two people and a dog, never mind three people, but no one complains.

“How was tonight?” Ciri asks.

“Uneventful. You would have been bored out of your mind. A couple of muggings, a kid who had wandered away from home, a quick chat with Istredd about not experimenting on children.”

“Ah, yes, a boring, typical evening,” Jaskier deadpans.

“Hm. What’s this terrible movie about?”

“It’s really not terrible. It’s been unfairly maligned.”

“It is terrible,” Ciri says. “He only likes it because he thinks the guy who plays the main scientist looks like you.”

Jaskier puffs himself up. “I told you that in confidence, Cirilla.”

Ciri laughs and Geralt grins and puts an arm around Jaskier’s shoulders. They don’t stay there for long before Jaskier and Ciri are both half-asleep and Geralt has seen enough of the movie to realize that it’s truly terrible. Ciri and Roach eventually drag themselves to Ciri’s room and Geralt tries to coax Jaskier off the couch.

Jaskier stretches lazily and smiles up at Geralt. “If I don’t want to move, will you carry me to bed?”

“No, I’ll leave you here to sleep on the couch.”

“You wouldn’t do that.”

“Sleep well.” Geralt turns away.

“Geralt!”

By the time Geralt is ready for bed, Jaskier has left the couch and is curled up in bed, watching Geralt sleepily. “You really don’t think Black Sun Industries will be a problem again?” he asks as Geralt slips into bed next to him.

“I don’t think Black Sun Industries will be around long enough to be a problem. And I think Istredd is a coward and a fool, but he’s not evil like Stregobor.”

Jaskier shudders. “I don’t think many people are evil like Stregobor. Or Rience, for that matter.”

Geralt pulls him close, pressing a kiss to the scar on his jaw. He knows Jaskier is having nightmares about what happened at Stregobor’s mansion, adding to the nightmares he was already having about the Black Knight and the Ghoul. It’s one of the reasons Geralt never stays on patrol too late; he doesn’t want Jaskier to be alone when he jolts awake in the middle of the night. Geralt is just relieved that Jaskier didn’t end up with any lasting harm that time and therapy won’t heal.

“I got another email from Renfri today,” Jaskier says. “She’s okay.”

“Hm.” Geralt isn’t sure how he feels about Jaskier and Renfri corresponding. Jaskier seems to take comfort in knowing that wherever Renfri is, she’s alive and well. And it’s not that Geralt wishes Renfri any ill. As far as he knows, the Shrike hasn’t killed anyone since she left Novigrad. He hopes that it’s a sign that someday, she’ll learn there’s more to life than revenge and violence.

“She says hi,” Jaskier adds. “To Ciri and Yenn too. You know, I think she might have a little crush on Yenn.”

Geralt frowns. “You think?”

“She always asks about her.”

“That would be a disaster.”

Jaskier grins. “I think they’d be cute.”

“I’ll do you a favor and never tell either of them you called them ‘cute.’”

“Always looking out for me.” Jaskier kisses Geralt sweetly.

“Always,” Geralt whispers. As Jaskier presses his body against Geralt’s, he grins. “I thought you were tired.”

“I’m never _that_ tired, Geralt.”

Geralt chuckles and rolls on top of him, kissing Jaskier until they’re both breathless.

Later, when Jaskier is naked and asleep next to him, his head pillowed on Geralt’s shoulder, Geralt runs his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and lets his drowsy mind wander. A few years ago, he never would have thought any of this would be possible. He never thought he could have quiet nights like this, eating takeout and watching corny movies with people he loves. He never thought he could fall asleep holding his boyfriend in his arms, completely sure that they’re both safe tonight.

He never realized that there could be life beyond being the Witcher, beyond taking down evil corporations and fighting killers, rapists, and muggers in back alleys. He always figured that he would be the Witcher until someone stuck a knife between his ribs or he got lucky like Vesemir and found someone to pass on the torch to. There was never any room for softness or love in that life. There wasn’t any room for someone like Jaskier.

And Geralt is proud of the work he does as the Witcher. He’s proud of every lost child he reunites with their parents, every innocent bystander he saves, every person like the Ghoul or Stregobor who will never hurt anyone again. He’ll keep doing this for a while, he thinks, at least it’s time to retire to somewhere quiet and sunny with Jaskier. But he won’t let it be his entire life anymore.

He’s happy to be the Witcher, but on nights like tonight, he’s happier to just be Geralt.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and a special thank you to those of you who have taken the time to comment and let me know what you think. You have all been awesome and I appreciate every single one of you!
> 
> This series is not over. Next up, there's a prequel covering how Geralt and Jaskier meet, the Ghoul incident, and vignettes of the two years of their relationship leading up to their encounter with Cahir. I plan to start posting that sometime in late June/early July. After that, there will be a sequel.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Updates will be posted weekly on Tuesdays.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


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